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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612438">you are ready to die in this swimming pool</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirerising/pseuds/vampirerising'>vampirerising</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the richie tozier summer of love [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A tag I very rarely use, Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Based on that one scene from The Sandlot (1993), Derry has a public pool and everyone Richie has ever known works there, Eddie is a hot lifeguard, Eddie is very good with children and Richie does not handle it well, First Kiss, Getting Together, Honorable mention: Bill's denim bucket hat, Honorable mention: some annoying kid named Josh who sucks, Honorable mention: the casual way two twenty-something boys bring up Twilight in conversation, M/M, Richie Tozier Has a Crush on Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie is Thirsty, Second Kiss, Slight mention of homophobia but like in passing, Sort Of, The Richie Tozier Summer of Love™</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:54:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612438</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirerising/pseuds/vampirerising</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with several pink sticky notes.</p><p>Bev leaves one on Richie’s bedroom door, the fridge, on the carton of orange juice, and the mirror in their shared bathroom. It’s an archaic mode of communication, and she’s not even sure if he’ll see them—Richie has a habit of just not seeing things he doesn’t want to—but Richie’s phone is almost always dead or on Do Not Disturb and it’s the only way the message will get across.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>TMouth—</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>My car’s in the shop AGAIN, ac’s out of fluid or smth. It’s going to be a bajillion degrees today, so please pick me up from work at 8. I’ll take you and Stan to the lifeguard party at the firehouse.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>Thanks, love you, you’re my favorite,</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>B</em></p><p> </p><p>It ends with Richie drowning.</p><p>Sort of.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beverly Marsh &amp; Richie Tozier &amp; Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier &amp; Stanley Uris &amp; Patty Blum</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the richie tozier summer of love [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>222</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you are ready to die in this swimming pool</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>here i am not updating my WIP but what's new??? nothing. this is so on brand for me lately it hurts. </p><p>you can thank my time spent Karen Wheeler-ing (season 3 only) at my town's public pool and the most excellent pool scene from the seminal classic <em>The Sandlot,</em> released in 1993, for this most unnecessary monster. and because you are dying to know, i have NOT had any sordid affairs with any lifeguards. i think they are all younger than me and that's weird and creepy, sorry Karen Wheeler.</p><p>oh, and obviously the title of this fic comes from a Richard Siken poem. obviously.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It starts with several pink sticky notes.</p><p>Bev leaves one on Richie’s bedroom door, the fridge, on the carton of orange juice, and the mirror in their shared bathroom. It’s an archaic mode of communication, and she’s not even sure if he’ll see them—Richie has a habit of just not seeing things he doesn’t want to—but Richie’s phone is almost always dead or on <em>Do Not Disturb</em> and it’s the only way the message will get across.</p><p>
  <em>TMouth—</em>
</p><p><em>My car’s in the shop AGAIN, ac’s out of fluid or smth. It’s going to be a bajillion degrees today, so please pick me up from work at 8. I’ll take you and Stan to the lifeguard party at the firehouse.</em> </p><p>
  <em>Thanks, love you, you’re my favorite,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>B</em>
</p><p>It ends with Richie drowning.</p><p>Sort of.</p>
<hr/><p>Richie fiddles with the knobs of his car radio, trying to find a station that plays nineties alternative or the Top 40, but gets nothing but static. He’s always stuck on this same one, some hybrid of the eighties, nineties, and early two-thousands, or so it claims to be; it’s always playing the same, like, six songs on repeat. He’s fucking <em>tired</em> of it.</p><p>And yet—</p><p><em>Your Love </em>by The Outfield plays and he taps his fingers to the beat, humming along to <em>Josie’s on a vacation far away, come around and talk it over. </em></p><p>“You’d think the radio on this thing would work given how fucking expensive it is,” Stan comments, nestled in the passenger seat. He’s kicked his shoes off, obviously, legs folded beneath his thighs. That morning’s crossword rests against them. He scribbles an answer in pen, which he always uses, because pencils imply mistakes will be made and Stan <em>never</em> makes mistakes.</p><p>“How expensive it <em>used</em> to be,” Richie corrects. “This thing is ancient.”</p><p>“It’s, what, two years old?” Stan retorts. “Not quite ancient territory.”</p><p>“Considering my parents only pawned it off on me so they could get this year’s model, it’s pretty fucking old,” Richie says. He knuckles the radio again, but only manages to raise the volume to ear-splitting decibels. Over it, he shouts, “My mom definitely hated that this piece of shit didn’t play <em>Imagine Dragons.” </em></p><p>“Maggie does love <em>Imagine Dragons,” </em>Stan comments easily, crossing out a clue by his elbow. “You gonna lower that, or…? Can’t say this is my favorite song.”</p><p>Richie belts the chorus, rivaling the radio itself, and attempts to bring it down. It won’t go, not even after he punches it a couple of times.</p><p>“Learn to like it,” he says eventually. “I should see if they can fix this thing someday.”</p><p>“Or just start buying CDs again,” Stan offers. “You’ve got a working disc player.”</p><p>Richie sighs. It’s a good idea but he’s not ready to build his music collection that way. “I think the only CD I have is *NSYNC’s self-titled from 2000,” he says. “It might actually be in the glove compartment if you want to change it that badly.”</p><p>“I don’t,” Stan says, even though it’s common knowledge that Stanley Uris knows the whole dance to <em>Bye Bye Bye. </em>“I just want you to lower this before we get a noise complaint.”</p><p>“I literally can’t,” Richie replies. “Move your knees.”</p><p>“No,” says Stan, but he does anyway, pulling away from the glove compartment.</p><p>Richie rifles through it—registration, hand warmers, two pairs of knitted gloves, a pamphlet to Hershey Park, expired coupons for coffees at Dunkin’ Donuts, and… two cracked CD cases. “Okay,” he says. “We’ve got the *NSYNC I mentioned or Britney’s <em>Oops… I Did It Again.”</em></p><p>“I’ll listen to Britney Spears at this volume, no questions asked,” Stan replies.</p><p>Richie changes the input, shoves the CD in, and Britney Spears’ voice warbles out of his speakers.<em> I think I did it again; I made you believe we’re more than just friends, oh baby.  </em></p><p>It’s a karaoke session of massive proportions, Stan and Richie being the terrible singers they are, trying to match Britney with each word she sings. When Richie’s voice cracks during <em>I’m not that innocent, </em>Stan laughs so hard he coughs, wheezing.</p><p>“At least Bev will be able to find us.”</p><p>“She can always find us,” Richie replies, lowering the volume as <em>Stronger</em> begins. “When I see her, I honk as obnoxiously as I can, and then she gets in the car, and…” He takes a look around the quickly emptying parking lot. “I’m the only one with a decent car in this shithole.”</p><p>“Ah,” Stan says wistfully, “to have a father with an extremely successful dentistry business.”</p><p>“He’s looking to expand into orthodontics,” Richie tells him, shifting in his seat to rest his knees on the side of the steering wheel. “Cavities and root canals just aren’t doin’ it for Went anymore.”</p><p>Stan snickers and shoots to the side, shoving his finger between Richie’s teeth. “He done thinking braces are purely cosmetic?” he asks. “Is he gonna let you get rid of this god-awful overbite?”</p><p>Richie snaps at him, catching his skin. “The overbite gives me character,” he says. “I’d be too powerful without it. That’s why God gave it to me.”</p><p>“I thought it was because you sucked your thumb until you were ten,” Stan replies, shaking his finer out.</p><p>“You have no proof of that.”</p><p>“I have several years of photographs,” Stan says. He flips the overhead light on and squints at the paper, reading over a hint. “Who’s the distributor of the game, <em>Dig Dug? </em>Is it Namco?”</p><p>Richie gasps, pressing a hand to his heart. “Is the great Stanley Uris asking <em>me</em> for crossword help?” He trains his gaze on the open entrance to the Derry Township Pool, watching someone in a stark white polo stack papers in the front office. “The same Stanley Uris that won every spelling bee from second grade on? <em>Eagle Scout </em>Stanley Uris?”</p><p>“I am twenty-one years old,” Stan remarks sourly. “I can ask my friend for help when the questions are about his adolescent interests.”</p><p>“Still my interests, baby,” Richie replies, now searching for Bev’s red baby bun. “Just adult interests now. It’s Atari. Namco just developed it.”</p><p>“Hm.” Stan says <em>hm</em> when he learns something new and interesting. He fits the word into the tiny boxes and falls silent again, filling in the puzzle in that weird way of his, quick and efficient. “I’m blanking on ‘unit of gem weight,’ like it’s right there, but—”</p><p>“Letters?”</p><p>“Five.”</p><p>Richie has the answer on the tip of his tongue, <em>karat,</em> thinking about how his aunt bragged to his mom the other day about the ring his cousin got from her now fiancé, <em>fourteen karat gold with the most gorgeous diamond, Maggie, you cannot believe, </em>but the only thing that he can say, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is:</p><p>“<em>Oh my fucking god.” </em></p><p>He forces himself upright, glad to have his car in park as his feet hit both the brake and the gas at the same time. All sound has seemed to leave the car—the music, Stan’s breathing, his <em>own—</em>and all he hears is the rapid beating of his heart. It sounds hard and heavy in his ears.</p><p>“Okay, you don’t need to be such an asshole about it,” Stan grumbles, unaware of Richie’s inner turmoil, that Richie can’t even hear him. “It’s an honest slip of the mind. I’m allowed to forget things.”</p><p>Richie parts his lips, feels the skin pull apart, and darts his tongue out to wet them. He feels the sting, swallows hard, and leans over to shake Stan’s shoulder. He has no other way to express himself; a master of words he claims himself to be, but he has none.</p><p>“What?” Stan asks. “Why are you… why are you such an animal, Rich? Jeez, let go.”</p><p>The sound that eventually comes out of Richie’s throat is particularly animalistic, a mix of a dog’s whine and his own pained groan. His voice is broken, stilted, when he blurts, “Who the hell is <em>that?”</em></p><p>Stan pries Richie’s fingers from him. Doesn’t look up. “One of Bev’s coworkers.”</p><p>“Okay, but <em>who?”</em></p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“You’re not even looking!”</p><p>“I don’t need to look!” Stan retorts. “You’re looking enough for both of us. Stop being so weird and shut your mouth.”</p><p>“Stan, I physically <em>cannot.” </em></p><p>“It’s just another lifeguard, bro,” Stan says. “They’re all lifeguards. You need to chill—unless it’s this Ben guy Bev is always talking about. I want to know more about him and how he fits in with Bill, and—”</p><p>“—it’s not, oh my god, Stan, it literally cannot be,” Richie interrupts. “I will kill myself if <em>this </em>is Ben. Holy shit, Stan, he’s not wearing a <em>shirt.”</em></p><p>“Again, he’s a lifeguard.”</p><p>“So? It’s chilly! It’s eight-thirty. He should wear a shirt.” Richie pauses, tilts his head, wishes his eyesight wasn’t so bad and he hadn’t parked so far away. “No, no, he shouldn’t. Let him be shirtless and cold. Oh my god.”</p><p>Stan says something else, but it’s drowned out by the roaring in Richie’s ears. The guy turns to smile at someone Richie can’t see. What he can see is how beautiful his smile is, spreading along the tanned planes of his face. He has dimples! The whitest teeth Richie has ever seen! This floppy hair, still damp, that’s starting to curl at his forehead, falling into eyes Richie can’t make out of the color of, but if they’re anything like the rest of him, they’re perfect! Beautiful! Majestic!</p><p>Oh my god.</p><p>His heart races.</p><p>He thinks he’s going to die.</p><p>His fingers fucking tremble.</p><p>He’s so focused on checking this guy out, literally leaning forward in his seat, hardly on it, that when Bev pries open the back door and chirps, “Hey! I wasn’t sure the Post-Its would work. Can you give Kay a ride, too?” Richie full-on <em>shrieks. </em></p><p>Stan, nonplussed, replies, “Post-Its always work unless you’re asking him to clean the bathroom. Five letter word for fashion magazine since 1892?”</p><p>“<em>Vogue,” </em>Kay McCall replies, sliding in next to Bev. “Are you okay, Richie?”</p><p>Bev leans over Stan’s shoulder, seated behind him, and says, “Six across is aide, seven down is diverse, and twenty-nine… Doris Day?”</p><p>“<em>Enough</em> with the family-friendly crossword puzzle solving!” Richie all but shouts, waving his hand so aggressively he almost hits Stan in the face and actually dislodges Bev’s damp bun. “It’s <em>July, </em>Beverly Marie—”</p><p>“—not my middle name—”</p><p>“—and you haven’t thought to share that a literal fucking <em>Adonis </em>works at this shitty community pool with you?”</p><p>Bev purses her lips, settling into the backseat. Her body makes the slick, sticking sound of wet skin pressing against leather. “I told you about Ben.”</p><p>“I’m not talking about bargain-brand Hercules,” Richie retorts. “I’m talking about… I’m talking…” <em>this golden-skinned, dark-haired, freckled god summoned directly from Mount Olympus to punish Richie for something incredibly important and it’s working—</em></p><p>He points, which Mags would say is rude but she’s not here, and says, “<em>Him.” </em></p><p>“Oh.” Kay giggles, shouldering Bev to lean forward and look. “Bev, I think he means Eddie.”</p><p><em>Eddie, </em>she says, as if Richie’s heart and his dick and the space between his eyes aren’t simultaneously <em>pulsing. </em>As if this isn’t the most groundbreaking thing to happen to him all summer, coming in <em>before</em> his paid gig at The Funny Bone downtown <em>and</em> this new car with the shitty radio.</p><p><em>Eddie, </em>she says, like this information is not important with a capital-<em>I. </em>Like it has not just <em>defined </em>his whole summer.</p><p>He parrots the name, sounding perfect, melting like chocolate on the tip of his tongue. “Eddie,” he says, and he says it again, drawing it out, chopping it up. “<em>Eddie. </em>Is that short for Edward? What a beautiful name. What do you know about him? Have you unlocked his tragic backstory? What’s his last name? His favorite color? Flower? TV show? Where does he go to school?” He twists in his seat and meets Kay’s brown-eyed gaze, almost surprised that she’s there even though he definitely heard her voice and was aware of it. “Is he gay?”</p><p>“Wow.” Stan deadpans. “That took less than five seconds.”</p><p>Bev and Kay’s laughter mixes together in the backseat. The two of them rattle off all they know about Eddie, talking over each other.</p><p>“Eddie Kaspbrak, he’s Polish—”</p><p>“—Bill’s roommate from college—”</p><p>“—somewhere in Connecticut or, B, is it Pennsylvania?”</p><p>“I thought it was New York,” Bev muses. “Don’t they both go to Columbia?”</p><p>“Bill’s in a creative writing program—”</p><p>“—and Eddie’s pre-med. He wants to be a doctor. A nurse?”</p><p>“Oh my <em>god,” </em>Richie blurts.</p><p>Stan snorts, reaching over to pat his shoulder in the least comforting way as possible. “Five letter word for intense infatuation.”</p><p>“Crush,” Bev and Kay chorus, giggling again.</p><p>“Shut up,” Richie snaps. “Have you seen him? Look at him! You don’t… you’re telling me you haven’t—” He breathes sharply out of his nose, half-listening to <em>Lucky, </em>watching Eddie hop into a Jeep with three other guys, two broad-shouldered and the other tall and lanky. “What else do you know about him?”</p><p>“All the little girls have crushes on him,” Kay says. “They all go to him when they get hurt, and they beg their moms to sign them up for his swim lessons, like I haven’t gotten that many requests this season and I’m the <em>best at—” </em></p><p>“—he apparently got into a huge thing with his mom last semester. He’s really tight-lipped about it, the two of them are, even if you get him drunk, so he’s staying with Bill’s family until school starts back up and maybe further notice?”</p><p>Richie blinks, filing this away, and wondering how he hasn’t seen this relative stranger anywhere in town before. He’s spent a bunch of time at The Funny Bone, the arcade, the movie theatre… and he hasn’t once seen this kid in Derry, and he’d remember if he did. Someone like that? Chiseled from marble by Michelangelo’s hands and reanimated to walk the world at the same time as Richie? He’d <em>know</em> if he saw him.</p><p>“Okay, but is he gay?” he blurts again. This all means nothing if he’s not going to potentially be into him.</p><p>“Undetermined,” Bev says at the same time Kay says, “Yes.”</p><p>“Wait, he told you?”</p><p>“No, but I watched him check out Ben once when he came back from the sprinklers, so homeboy must be interested in guys, too.”</p><p>“Or he just has incredibly good taste,” Bev defends.</p><p>“You have a crush on <em>Ben,</em> who looks like <em>that, </em>and <em>Bill, </em>who is his polar opposite,” Kay shoots back. “You have no right to determine what taste is, sorry, babe.”</p><p>“Kay!”</p><p>“It’s true. Richie, tell her I’m right.”</p><p>“I’ve never seen either of them,” Richie admits, still watching that Jeep. Eddie’s in the passenger seat. There’s a kid in the back—not the one with the shoulders, built like a fucking linebacker—wearing a denim bucket hat. He looks like an idiot, but Richie feels spiritually connected to this fashion choice.</p><p>“Stan?”</p><p>“Introduce me to them later and I’ll say exactly what you want me to say,” Stan says dutifully. “Wait, no, I don’t care. Bev, you have no taste. Can I invite Patty tonight?”</p><p>“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Kay says. “No one cares who shows up anymore.”</p><p>“Great because I already did.”</p><p>Richie realizes he doesn’t know the words to this next Britney Spears song and tries to focus on them. Why does he own this album if he doesn’t know all of the songs? He thinks he only knows three… and where are the other bops? Are they really not on this CD? Does he need to buy a <em>different</em> Britney Spears CD? Is this Jeep slowing down next to his car? Oh my fucking god this Jeep is slowing down next to his—</p><p>Bev rolls down her window and waves. “Hi, Bill!”</p><p>Richie looks past Stan, who has decided to lean over his crossword again, giving him the perfect view of Eddie Kaspbrak’s profile, and swallows back his squawk of despair. His hair grows thicker and curlier in this humidity as it dries, a cloud about his head that Richie wants to touch, and his eyes are this particular shade of brown he’s going to spend three hours later on searching for the correct name of, hidden beneath his covers even though he has his own bedroom. Richie accidentally—<em>purposely?—</em>meets his gaze; his heart thrums even worse than before, and he worries every single thought he’s ever had is displayed on his face. He can’t pull away from Eddie’s orbit, lost in implications and hopes and the burning desire to get to know him better.</p><p>Eddie brushes the hair out of his face, flipping it to the side, and leans his elbow on the window, resting his cheek against his fist. He smiles—at Richie? At Bev? He doesn’t know—and Richie slides down the length of his seat until he’s in an uncomfortable position, knees pressed tight beneath the steering wheel.</p><p>Stan laughs. “What’s the six-letter word for the location of the 1968 Summer Olympics?”</p><p>Richie doesn’t know the answer to this one, and Kay and Bev are busy talking to Bill, the one with the hat, to contribute.</p><p>It’s Eddie that answers, “Mexico.” He leans out the window a bit, squinting like he can see into Richie’s car. “Are you doing a crossword?”</p><p>“They calm me,” Stan replies easily, writing the country into the boxes in tiny, block letters. “And when you’re best friends with Richie, you need outlets for relaxation or you’ll have panic attacks every hour.”</p><p>“That is <em>so rude,”</em> Richie wheezes out. “I’m a fucking delight, Stanley.”</p><p>“I never said you weren’t,” Stan says. “I just can’t keep up well.” He glances over at Eddie, who seems more interested in the two of them than the conversation about the party happening behind them. “If you’re planning on being Richie’s friend, I hope you’re good at physical and verbal assault.”</p><p>“That makes it sound like I’m an abusive person,” Richie complains, voice rising into a high-pitched whine. <em>If you’re planning on being Richie’s friend? </em>What the <em>fuck. </em>He surreptitiously moves his hand so he can pinch Stan’s inner elbow. “I just like jokes.”</p><p>“He’s very touchy,” Stan says, “and when he says jokes, he means at your expense. I’d run in the other direction.”</p><p>Eddie laughs—ugh, what a sound—and replies, “I’m sure I’ll be able to manage.”</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” Stan replies. “I was six, and I was wrong. Don’t make the same mistakes as me… I’m sorry, I don’t think I know your name.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, right.” Eddie smiles again, dimples on display. “I’m Eddie. I’m staying with Bill for the summer. Do you know Bill?”</p><p>“Only in passing,” Stan says. “I’m Stan. Don’t listen to anything Richie”—he points at Richie in the driver’s seat—“says about me. It’s all slander.”</p><p>“I’ve never once said anything bad about Stan,” Richie says to Eddie. “He’s the coolest guy I know. Everything I say is the truth.”</p><p>Stan makes a face. “Four letter word for Richie Tozier.”</p><p>“Cool?” Richie suggests.</p><p>“You wish.”</p><p>“Liar,” Eddie provides, and his face lights up when Stan goes <em>ding, ding, ding! </em></p><p>Richie gapes, trying to straighten himself up in a graceful manner, but he’s like a baby deer who just noticed he has really long, spindly legs. He knees the car door and elbows the horn, sending a bird flying frightfully from a nearby tree branch. “I don’t even <em>know</em> you, Eddie!” he exclaims. “Stan, you can’t just <em>brainwash </em>people like this! Give me a chance to disappoint him before you turn him over to the dark side!”</p><p>Eddie licks his lips and smacks them together, looking at Richie with such blatant interest it makes Richie’s skin crawl—with nerves? Excitement? Ugh, he feels so… he doesn’t know, but he’s going to <em>explode. </em>“I highly doubt you’ll disappoint me—Richie, right?”</p><p>“Mhm, Richie’s my name, bad jokes are my game,” Richie blurts. He scratches behind his ear so fervently he feels like a dog with a flea.</p><p>Eddie’s mouth twists. “Cool.”</p><p>
  <em>Cool? </em>
</p><p>“No, no,” Stan says. “Richie is not cool. Eddie, erase that thought from your memory immediately.”</p><p>“I’ll just have to find out on my own,” Eddie muses. “Are you guys coming to this party tonight?”</p><p>Richie nods. “For picking up the incomparable Beverly Marsh from work, I get an exclusive Derry Township Lifeguard Party invite, and Stan is always my plus one, and his plus one is always his girlfriend, Patty, who is a queen among women.”</p><p>“Alright.” Eddie grins. “We can see if you’re cool or not later. I’ll report back to Stan with my findings.”</p><p>Stan gives him a salute with his pen. “I love a good research project.”</p><p>The one driving clears his throat loudly. He has a nice face, the kind that looks like it’s always smiling, but he’s got his gaze sharp on Bev’s interaction with Bill. <em>Must be Ben, </em>Richie thinks, and though Bill’s got that killer ugly hat, he has to agree that maybe Bev is not the best when it comes to men. Her taste is all over the board.</p><p>“I gotta make a liquor store run before they close,” he says, interrupting both conversations. “Anyone want anything specific? You can Venmo me later.”</p><p>“Get blueberry Stoli!” Kay shouts, leaning over Bev. “And cream soda! Shit tastes like a muffin.”</p><p>“Any other requests?” Ben asks. “Stan, Richie?”</p><p><em>Shit, he pays attention,</em> Richie thinks, and then <em>shit</em> again. Ben looks particularly observant, which means he saw every inch of Richie’s breakdown when Eddie looked at him. Talked to him. <em>Shit. </em></p><p>“Nah,” says Stan. “I’m gonna drive back, so Richie’s the one to ask.”</p><p>Richie shakes his head quickly. He’ll drink whatever.</p><p>“Cool,” Ben says. “I’ll grab another thing of vodka just in case. See y’all there!”</p><p>And they’re off, Ben recklessly driving through the parking lot and across the grass field—probably because the liquor store closes in, like, twenty minutes, and Richie rests his head against the steering wheel, taking deep, measured breaths. The absence of conversation makes him realize the Britney Spears tape ended, that Eddie talked to him while <em>Britney Spears played in the background, </em>and he groans, loud and tortured.</p><p>Stan ejects the CD, puts it back in the case, and inserts *NSYNC before some eighties jam can come on at full volume and shatter their eardrums.</p><p>“<em>Any other requests?” </em>Richie repeats, trying to mimic Ben’s sincere tone of voice. He sounds nasally and rude, which is so not who Ben seems to be. “Yeah, Ben,” he says. “<em>To die.”</em> He whines again, ignoring how Bev and Kay start to shuck off their regulation shorts and shirts, changing easily in his backseat into dry crop tops and shorts. “He’s <em>so pretty, </em>Stan.”</p><p>“I noticed,” Stan replies, “and you can thank me for his interest in you later. We need to pick up Patty. She’s at the movie theatre. Her shift ended ten minutes ago.”</p>
<hr/><p>Richie’s grip on his red cup is sweaty and loose. The contents are beyond him—Patty made it, and he trusts Patty’s judgment when it comes to mixed drinks, but he hasn’t been able to taste a bit of it.</p><p>His attention, taste buds and all, has been focused solely on Eddie Kaspbrak, of Polish descent, premed at Columbia, and living with Bill Denbrough due to a mysterious disagreement with his mother, who lives—somewhere else. That’s all he knows about him and he’s dying to find out more past the obvious physical attractiveness, but for the past hour, Richie’s been rooted to the spot. Kay and Bev flit back and forth, obviously more comfortable with the group here, and Stan and Patty have stayed by his side so he doesn’t look like a <em>complete </em>loser, but still.</p><p>He takes a long, hard gulp of his drink. It’s warm. That’s all he’s got.</p><p>“Go talk to him!” Patty suggests eagerly. She’s pink-cheeked and giggly, arms wrapped around Stan’s middle, chin on his shoulder. “Even <em>I’ve </em>said hi, and I don’t remember his name.”</p><p>“Eddie,” both Stan and Richie say.</p><p>Patty hums, then says, “Five letter word for cutie.”</p><p>Stan barks out a stunned laugh, delighted, and Richie groans. “That’s disgusting,” he says. “Do you two FaceTime over the morning crossword? Does that get you guys goin’?”</p><p>“There’s nothing wrong with knowing fun facts, Richard,” Patty remarks. “And it’s fun to guess based on numbers. Wanna know what you are? Someone who is fearful: two words, ten letters.”</p><p>Richie rolls his eyes, downing the rest of his drink, and watches Eddie laugh at something Mike, the other guy in the car with him, says. “I am not a <em>scaredy cat, </em>Patricia,” he says. “I’m just—”</p><p>“—a scaredy cat,” she says solemnly. “It’s okay. I had to do all the legwork with Stan.”</p><p>“Okay, not <em>all </em>the legwork,” Stan retorts.</p><p>She pinches his cheek. “Most of the legwork,” she relents. “Our first date would not have existed had I not spilled your coffee all over your shirt and then insisted I buy you another one.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Stan says, turning his head to press a kiss to her cheek. He gets the side of her mouth instead. “Listen to Patty, Richie. She knows how to get men apparently.”</p><p>“W<em>eeeeee</em>ll,” she says, long and drawn out, “I wouldn’t say that. I just know what I want when I want it and I go get it. My only advice to you is to finish that drink you’ve been nursing for a hundred years so you have an excuse to go to the bar and talk to him while you make us something new. We’ll wait here.”</p><p>Richie’s mouth goes dry at the thought of going near Eddie, so he <em>does</em> finish off his cup, but not for the reasons Patty wants. Getting in his bubble, his orbit? He’s going to <em>vomit. </em>Like… just… projectile, all over the place. He’s going to ruin this fucking party and get banned from all future gatherings and Bev is going to move out because he’s an embarrassment and Eddie will find a reason to make up with his mother and go back to wherever he came from and—</p><p>“You are panicking so fucking loudly,” Stan interrupts. “He is <em>at the bar. </em>Say hello while you make drinks and see what happens. Patty doesn’t need her drink that badly that you should rush.”</p><p>“Nope,” Patty replies. “I have to open the theatre tomorrow so I technically should go slow tonight, but will I?”</p><p>“Probably not,” says Stan.</p><p>“Probably not,” she agrees. “Remember we’re drinking vodka lemonades, Richie! I don’t want to mix. Now”—she kicks at the back of his knee with a light foot—“<em>go.</em> I wanna know all about him.”</p><p>“I don’t,” Stan says, “so wait to gossip until I’m gone.”</p><p>“Five letter word for opposite of true,” Patty shoots at him.</p><p>Stan sighs. “Fine. I wanna know, so come back with something good.”</p><p>Richie turns to make a face at them, lips curled and pointed downwards, terrified and unwilling, but Patty kicks him again. He stumbles to catch his footing, glaring at her, and marches off to the makeshift bar, which is <em>an actual bar, </em>with the air of a person with purpose.</p><p>Or maybe that’s just his natural air of nervous energy.</p><p>It’s hard to tell.</p><p>Eddie notices him first, wriggling his way in between Sally Mueller, who is much nicer since Greta fucked off to California for college and never bothered to come back during breaks, and some kid he’s never seen in his life. Richie feels it when he gets his attention, the hairs on the left side of his body standing upright. He grits his teeth to keep his hands from shaking—at least this close to him—and grapples for the half-empty handle of Tito’s sitting next to half a dozen other alcohols and mixers.</p><p>“Hey,” Eddie says, coming up beside him. Everyone moves for him like he’s parting the fucking sea. Jesus. “Need a cup?”</p><p>“Two.” Richie coughs. “Patty wants a refill.”</p><p>Eddie flips two over, filling them with ice like this is something the two of them do together often. “Patty is… Stan’s girlfriend. From the movie theatre.”</p><p>“Yeah, she says she met you but she doesn’t remember your name,” Richie blurts out. “She gets like that. Excited and flighty. She’s good people though.”</p><p>“If she’s dating Stan, I’d bet,” Eddie says. “You guys seem like good friends.”</p><p>Richie nods. “I don’t have a memory he’s not in,” he admits, eying the amount of vodka he puts in the cups. It’s bullshit anyway. He and Patty always make their drinks too strong. “He has no choice but to be my friend at this point. I won’t let him leave me.”</p><p>“I can’t imagine anyone wouldn’t want to be your friend,” Eddie says.</p><p>“Glad you missed all twelve years of me at school, then,” Richie replies. “I wasn’t exactly popular. Bill can attest to that, if you want to fact-check anything I say.”</p><p>“I’d want to be your friend.”</p><p>“You don’t even know me.”</p><p>“Feels like I do,” Eddie replies. “Bev tells so many stories about you and Stan—you specifically. It’s nice to put a name to the face.”</p><p>Alarms ring in Richie’s head, blaring and red. He reaches blindly for the lemonade. “Can’t say the same,” he says. “Bev’s been pretty quiet about you, Eddie Kaspbrak.”</p><p>“Guess I don’t do anything funny,” Eddie replies, unbothered by this.</p><p>Richie glances at him, soft and super tanned in this yellow and pink tie-dyed shirt, and blurts, “Or maybe she just wanted to keep me away from the cute new lifeguard.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh my god. </em>
</p><p>Eddie does this smile where his mouth widens but he bites down on it to try to tamp it down. “You think I’m cute?”</p><p>“Uh.” Richie focuses all his energy on accurately measuring out the lemonade so as not to spill it over the sides of his cups. “I bet everyone does. You’ve got—cheeks.”</p><p>“Everyone has cheeks,” Eddie replies with a laugh.</p><p>“Yeah, but yours are like…” Richie lifts his hands and squeezes air. “Combined with the whole summer thing you’ve got going on… cute, cute, cute.”</p><p>Eddie grins, those cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink, and opens his mouth to shut it again. He clears his throat, his gaze raking down the long line of Richie’s body; he can feel the way he stares curdling in his stomach. He kind of wishes he hadn’t worn this dumbass shirt, but patterns are his specialty and it wasn’t like he knew he was going to meet the love of his life in the parking lot of the Derry Township Public Pool.</p><p>“You know, I haven’t seen you at the pool before,” Eddie says, which is less heated than the eyes he’s got fixed on Richie. “I’d assume you guys would be there if Bev worked there.”</p><p>“Yeah, oh, yeah,” Richie stammers. “I just… haven’t had time yet! Stan took a summer course that just finished up”—<em>a fucking lie—”</em>and I just started working at the comedy club downtown so I was workshopping new material for a little bit”—<em>not a lie—“</em>but we’ll be there next week! I heard it’s gonna be real hot.”</p><p>“Oh, cool,” Eddie says, “maybe I’ll see you there, then?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Richie repeats, mouth feeling like it’s full of cotton balls, dry and fluffy. He swallows around it. “Do you work Monday?”</p><p>“Conveniently I work all week,” Eddie says and the way he says <em>conveniently, </em>it’s like he’s caressing the word with his fucking tongue.</p><p>Richie squeaks, a sharp sound that escapes through an inhale and hopefully is not heard, and says, “Great! I—love that. Sounds super cool. I will see you then… and also around this party. I need to get Patty her drink. You know how stressful it is serving popcorn to the masses.”</p><p>“Right, super stress—”</p><p>But Richie’s already on the move, bolting away. He hands Patty her drink, blurts, “I called him cute and said I’d see him at the pool on Monday, but I don’t have a membership?” and shoves his drink into Stan’s hands as he searches frantically for someone he knows who is also a lifeguard and is not Eddie.</p><p>He finds Kay, separating from a conversation with Mike, and derails her from going wherever she planned on going. “Kay,” he says frantically, grabbing her hands. “Kay, how do I join the shitty community pool? How do I join it by Monday?”</p><p>Kay’s eyes glitter at him, amused by his antics as always, and she squeezes his fingers like she’s sharing some sort of secret with him. “You fill out a form,” she says, “and pay a fee.”</p><p>“A f—”</p><p>“You also need proof of residency and a valid ID,” Kay continues to list off.</p><p>“Okay, but a <em>fee? </em>For our <em>shitty community pool?” </em></p><p>“It’s actually a very nice pool,” Kay replies. “There’s a slide.” She grins at him, Cheshire Cat-like. “And there’s an Eddie.”</p><p>Richie hates giving money back to this awful town, but half his bullies moved away immediately following graduation or, like, died (<em>do not rest in peace, Henry Bowers, you piece of shit)</em>, so he guesses—<em>guesses—</em>he can fork up the cash to entertain himself at the shitty community pool just this once.</p><p>He grimaces. Asks, “How much is it?”</p><p>When Kay answers, he thinks he’s misheard her. They <em>are</em> playing some new Jonas Brothers song incredibly loudly from the speakers overhead.</p><p>“<em>What?” </em>he blurts, half a shout. “Did you say—?”</p><p>“One seventy-five for a single member, yes, that’s what I said,” Kay says.</p><p>“For, like, two months?” Richie asks. “Isn’t that… excessive? Is this a good investment? I need to confer with Stan.” He twists around, pulling Kay with him, marching her back to where Patty and Stan are in deep discussion, probably about something nerdy and stupid.</p><p>“Stan,” he says loudly, “listen to what Kay has to say about pool memberships.”</p><p>She relays the information, just as amused as she was before, and Stan wrinkles his nose. “For two months?”</p><p>“The pool opens Memorial Day weekend and closes on Labor Day,” Kay replies. “It makes sense.”</p><p>“Are there pay-as-you-go packages?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Weekend deals?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What is the benefit of this pool?” Stan asks, then waves his hand in front of them, already knowing the answer. “Taxes. I get it. It goes straight back into Derry.”</p><p>Richie takes his drink back from Stan, drinks half of it, and makes a face, though he’s not sure if it’s from the amount of vodka he poured in this or the fact that he’s really, truly considering paying an astronomical amount of money to go to their public pool, full of people he doesn’t even like. Like, the thought is there. The answer is there. He already knows what he’s going to do, and sometimes he does the things he wants.</p><p>He closes his eyes, breathes slowly through his nose, and tries not to picture the state of his bank account. “You can’t get me some sort of discount, McCall? Like, a friends and family—”</p><p>“—it’s a <em>pool,</em> Richie baby, not an Old Navy,” she interrupts, snagging his cup and drinking for herself. She is so nonchalant about it Richie wants to wring her neck; <em>one hundred and seventy-five dollars </em>to go to the pool and she acts like it’s nothing. And to her, it’s not! She gets to go for free. She gets <em>paid</em> to go. She gets <em>paid </em>to <em>look at cute, new lifeguard, Eddie Kaspbrak. </em></p><p>Sometimes life just isn’t fucking fair.</p><p>“I can’t believe I’m going to spend money I was saving to buy a new Switch to stare at some twink at the shitty public pool,” he complains, smacking his lips, tangy with lemonade.</p><p>Stan cocks his head like that of an interested bird. “You <em>can’t?”</em></p><p>Richie elbows him lightly in the side and reaches his hand out for Patty’s drink, his cup now empty in his hand. He pretends to stare out into space, thinking, but he’s really just looking for Eddie and his stupid soft hair and pretty face and multi-colored shirt. He finds him where he left him, talking to Betty Ripsom with her long, high ponytail, and his entire body heats up when he catches the swift, subtle movement of a gaze flicking from himself back to her, like Eddie’d been looking over at him too.</p><p>
  <em>Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. </em>
</p><p>“Wait,” he says, “one seventy-five is for <em>one person? </em>I can’t bring Stan with me?”</p><p>“As if I would ever step foot inside that place,” Stan replies indignantly. “Find another friend.”</p><p>“I’ll go!” Patty replies. “I’ve been dying to break out my new bathing suit. How much is a guest pass?”</p><p>“Fourteen for the whole day,” Kay replies.</p><p>Stan waits a beat, like he’s weighing the pros and cons of this, and mutters, “I’ll come.”</p><p>“Great, excellent,” Richie says, ignoring the sinking pit in his stomach at the loss of so much money. He wiggles between Stan and Patty and throws his arms around their shoulders. “Get ready for the summer of love, my friends.”</p><p>“Somehow I highly doubt this will work out the way you want it to,” Stan replies.</p><p>Patty, the angel she is, kisses Richie’s cheek, and says, “I’m excited!”</p>
<hr/><p>“Beach Babe comin’ atcha at two o’clock,” Patty whispers surreptitiously, looking over her sunglasses and lifting her book like she’s some kind of spy in a <em>James Bond </em>movie. “No, that’s ten o’clock. Your… your <em>right,</em>Richie, your right!”</p><p>Stan covers his face with his towel and groans. “How’d you pass your driver’s test, Rich? How am I <em>alive </em>every time I get in that car with you?”</p><p>“It was a very near thing,” Richie replies. He knocks his knees together anxiously, watching Eddie skirt a pair of running kids; he stops to tell them to slow down, which they do, but only until his back is turned, and then they’re at it again, shrieking gleefully into the fenced off section where the snack bar is.</p><p>“Wait a second.” Stan shoots up, towel flying to the side. “Did you call Eddie <em>Beach Babe?” </em></p><p>“Yeah. We’re using codenames,” Patty replies, “and there are no good ones for pool lifeguards.”</p><p>“I can’t believe I’m here right now,” Stan complains, as if he weren’t the one to wake them all up this morning. He leans his weight on his elbows and watches Eddie the same way the others are.</p><p>Patty whacks him. “Be <em>inconspicuous,” </em>she hisses.</p><p>“He’s all the way across the way,” Stan replies. “He can’t even see me, and look, he’s going in the pool anyway—”</p><p>Richie swallows roughly, regretting their choice in seat, and hides beneath the brim of his baseball hat, so obviously staring as Eddie gracefully glides into the water. He emerges, soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead and neck in a way that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, and is immediately attacked from all directions by little kids.</p><p>Their excited shouts seem to be the only sound Richie can hear for the next several minutes, rising in volume like the roaring of a crowd. He slides down the chair, feet pressed flat to the blazing ground, and <em>stares. </em></p><p>Patty fans at his face with her book. He hardly notices.</p><p>In the farthest corner from them, roped off from the rest of the patrons, Eddie takes the kid on his back and flips him into the water, tugs lightly on a blond girl’s braid, and says something, laughing the entire time, to a different girl, who has latched herself onto his front.</p><p>“Oh my god,” Richie blurts, mouth dry, throat on fire.</p><p>“It is a known fact that he’s good with children,” Stan says.</p><p>“He’s teaching them to <em>swim!”</em> Patty exclaims ecstatically. “Oh my god, I want Eddie to teach me to swim!”</p><p>“Patty!”</p><p>“He’s like a fish,” Patty replies. “I don’t feel as confident in my skills as I used to looking at him. Where do I sign up?”</p><p>“Somebody kill me,” Richie begs. “Someone please just—just take me out. I can’t… this is…” He flops back, jostling his seat, and ends up flat on his back. “I want to die.”</p><p>Patty rubs his shoulder consolingly and offers him her sparkling lemon water. He sucks at the straw in almost pathetic dejection.</p><p>“He’s remarkably patient,” Stan comments. Richie flicks his gaze over to see Stan, squinting so obviously in Eddie’s direction that Richie almost thinks everyone at this pool knows exactly what he’s doing here. “Huh.”</p><p>“Aw, look at that girl!” Patty says. “Rich, you’re missing it. Stop moping.”</p><p>But Richie hears a high-pitched <em>Eddie, Eddie, I did it! </em>and curls up in himself again. He never thought he was big on kids, but seeing Eddie so playful, so caring with them now… he suddenly wants to adopt seven and raise them with Eddie in a house with a sprawling backyard and, like, four dogs.</p><p>“You did do it!” Eddie agrees. <em>How can Richie even hear him? </em>“Wanna try again? I’ll buy you whatever candy you want if you can swim from one end to the other three more times.”</p><p>“<em>Watch,” </em>Patty hisses, pinching Richie’s stomach. “This is some good shit and you’re, what, <em>wallowing?” </em></p><p>“It’s what he does,” Stan says. “Sit the fuck up, Rich. I’m not here to watch your summer crush for you.”</p><p>Richie groans, like this is physically taxing, like this is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, and wraps himself up in his towel like that’s going to provide him with the strength and comfort he needs to—</p><p>Holy shit.</p><p>Words fail him. Thoughts fail him. He has a singular focus on Eddie’s freckled back and shoulders, the only parts of him he can see, as he helps this tiny person learn how to float on their back. As easily as he does that, he splashes a boy who splashes him.</p><p>Richie watches, mesmerized, as Eddie becomes, like, a fucking—like a nymph or something, a water god, one with the pool. The sun reflects off the shimmering surface, hitting Eddie like he’s some sort of glass statue, and Richie averts his gaze as if he’ll go blind from looking too long.</p><p>He’s perfect. Oh my god. Richie <em>knew</em> that, obviously, objectively, but watching him do his job? Watching him with children? Richie thinks he’d be doing the world a disservice by even attempting to speak with him.</p><p>And what’s worse is he looks like he belongs out here in the sunlight. In the summertime. His nose scrunches up when he laughs, a kid doing something particularly amusing to him, and Richie’s stomach flips and his heart jumps and that little place in the center of his chest that makes him feel like it’s going to vomit—they all pulse erratically, Richie’s body not made for feelings so deep, so strong.</p><p>It’s not fair that someone can look so good beneath the slow set of the sun, underneath bright fluorescent lights, and when the sun is at its apex, shining bright, beaming down on him. He soaks it all up like he’s a plant, like he was singlehandedly made from the rays of the sun, molded flawlessly into a—</p><p>“This is a family-friendly establishment,” Bev’s voice sounds above them. She throws her towel at Richie’s lap. “You can get kicked out for indecency, Richard.”</p><p>“I’m not—I do not have a—I don’t need this,” Richie stammers, shoving it back at her. “I’m perfectly fine. Perfectly acceptable.”</p><p>“If you so much as have even a <em>quarter </em>of a boner, I’m leaving immediately,” Stan says.</p><p>Patty lowers her book. “He’s good.”</p><p>“Oh my god,” Richie blurts, grabbing at Bev’s towel again. “Patricia!”</p><p>“What?” she asks, mindlessly flipping a page. “It’s, like, right there. If you had one, we’d all see it. I was just denying it for you.”</p><p>Richie blinks, then surges forward to grab Bev’s hand. “Beverly,” he begins, astonishingly sincere, “will you please, <em>please </em>murder me? Just end my suffering?”</p><p>Bev snorts. “How’s the summer of love going?” she asks. “From the office, you all look ridiculous. I think Stan’s doing the most staring out of all of you.”</p><p>“Patty thinks she’s incognito and Richie is debating death every time Eddie so much as breathes,” Stan replies. “Someone’s gotta do the hard work. It’s always me.”</p><p>“He’s teaching kids to<em> swim,</em> Bev,” Richie whines. “Kids! Swimming!”</p><p>“I told you he was good with them,” Bev reminds him. “He’s so nice and attentive that most parents want their kids with him and have even asked if he’ll be back next summer.”</p><p><em>Attentive, </em>Richie thinks wildly. <em>Eddie is attentive. </em></p><p>What else is he attentive about? What else could he possibly devote time and energy into?</p><p><em>Now</em> Richie needs this towel, his dick twitching almost uncomfortably.</p><p>“If I had known he was <em>that</em> good with them, I would’ve never signed up to—”</p><p>“—<em>two o’clock, two o’clock, two o’clock—” </em></p><p>Richie turns his head so quickly his neck cricks, and he believes he experiences what people call whiplash. (<em>Please note that he has not.) </em>At the end of the pool near their seats, Eddie climbs up the ladder, emerging from the water.</p><p>It happens in slow motion in Richie’s mind—each step he takes, the way he holds the railing, the flex of his biceps, the glistening skin. He stands, stretching his arms up above his head, pressing his toes into the ground, and laughs at something one of the other, nameless lifeguards in the stand says.</p><p>And then he shouts, “Josh, come on, man, <em>don’t run.” </em></p><p>“Sorry, Eddie!” this Josh kid yells back. “Can’t help it! I can’t control my—”</p><p>His friend pushes him in the pool, right in front of them, then jumps in, and Sally Mueller, from the opposite lifeguard stand, blows her whistle. “<em>No jumping!” </em></p><p>“Josh deserved that,” Bev says, mainly to herself. “He’s a little shit.”</p><p>All of this happens while Richie’s eyes are still on Eddie, who continues his stretch by bending forward at the waist and touching his toes. Richie can see every single one of his spine’s vertebrae and the way his shoulder muscles move with his body.</p><p>He thinks he may pass out.</p><p>He thinks—</p><p>“Oh shit,” he breathes. “Oh <em>shit.” </em></p><p>Eddie Kaspbrak is walking this way.</p><p>
  <em>Eddie Kaspbrak is walking this way. </em>
</p><p>“I need to leave immediately,” Richie blurts, but Patty hooks her foot around his ankle, keeping him stationary. She’s not strong enough to actually make him stay, but the accountability is there. No one will let him live it down if he runs now.</p><p>“Oh, would you look who it is,” Eddie greets. “Can I use that, Bev?”</p><p>She hands her towel over wordlessly and Richie doesn’t mean to stare, he doesn’t, but Eddie makes toweling off seem like an artform. He crosses his legs just in case.</p><p>“I’m pretty sure Jocelyn can graduate from the course soon,” Eddie says to Bev. “She’s managed to swim under and above water really well.”</p><p>“I saw that,” says Bev. “She seems to be a quick learner, but I wouldn’t be so sure she’s retaining it enough.”</p><p>“She races <em>me </em>in the pool,” Eddie says. “I want her out of there so I can be the best swimmer again.”</p><p>“You jealous of some seven-year-old girl?” Bev teases.</p><p>“I hold a state championship record!” Eddie exclaims. “And she thinks she can outswim me because she’s tiny and cute? <em>Wrong.”</em></p><p>“You <em>are</em> jealous of a—”</p><p>“—I am not, Beverly,” Eddie interrupts. “I am very proud of her progress. Three weeks ago she was terrified to get in the water and would cling to me”—Richie makes a pained sort of sound, a mix between a hiccup and a whine that he hopes goes unnoticed; Bev quirks a brow at him—“and now she’s a natural. That’s great, but <em>please,”</em> and his tone goes playful, “some of us are <em>professionals </em>here.”</p><p>Patty laughs.</p><p>Bev says, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, babe.”</p><p>“Do you want to see my medal?” Eddie asks her.</p><p>“Don’t tell me you <em>brought </em>it,” she replies, aghast. “You’re quickly losing cool points with me, Kaspbrak, I swear t—”</p><p>But whatever she was going to say is forcibly interrupted by the flurry of children, wet and loud, grabbing at Eddie’s hands. “C’mon, Eddie!” one of them says, the girl with the braids. “You owe us candy for being good at swimming!”</p><p>Eddie drops Bev’s towel at her feet and is dragged off with no preamble. Over his shoulder, he shouts, “At least the kids think I’m cool!”</p><p>“We don’t!”</p><p>“Hey, you, Josh’s friend—push him back in.”</p><p>Richie watches him go, heart constricting. He thinks it may physically shatter into a million pieces when he lets this tiny dark-haired boy jump on his back. He is so fucked. <em>So fucked. </em>Like imagine the most fucked you could be and multiply it by infinity. That’s not even a real number. That’s how fucked Richie is.</p><p>He should’ve just left Bev at work last week. Fuck, why is he such a nice guy? Such a good friend? He’s going to call his mom and <em>complain </em>to her about raising him right; how dare she! If it weren’t for her he wouldn’t be in this position, and she deserves to know how terrible she is for tr—</p><p>“Ow, what the <em>fuck, </em>Patricia, did you just hit me with your one thousand page book?”</p><p>“Yeah, I fucking did,” she responds. “You gotta problem with that?”</p><p>“Yes?” Richie replies. “It <em>hurt.” </em></p><p>“Good, because <em>what the fuck?”</em> she snaps at him. “What was that?”</p><p>“Mainly what was that noise?” Bev asks, laughing. “Were you dying? You sounded like a goat.”</p><p>“That was <em>prime conversation time, </em>dude,” Stan tacks on, “and you acted like he wasn’t even there!”</p><p>Patty hits him again. “He spent half the time talking to Bev staring at you and you were just—you were checked out, Richie! What were you thinking about? You couldn’t have said hi?”</p><p>“No,” Richie replies. “I had no control over my body. I didn’t even… I knew no words. I had no thoughts. I was focused on the way the water was running down his back!”</p><p>Bev throws her head back and chortles. “You’re doing <em>so well, </em>Tozier. This is the best summer of my life.”</p><p>“It’s only been a day!” Richie retorts. “And this day is not even over yet! It took <em>you</em>”—he points at Bev—“a whole week to say something to Bill and even longer to tell Ben you liked his fucking <em>towel, </em>of all things, and <em>you!”</em> Richie rounds on Stan. “Don’t even get me started on you, Mister I Don’t Think She Likes Me. Give me time. Give me space. I have a plan.”</p><p>“Oh, you do?” Bev asks. “What is it?”</p><p>“You don’t ask a magician how he does his tricks, do you?”</p><p>“I do,” Stan says, “all the time. They make no sense. How did you know that was my card? Tell me your secrets.”</p><p>“Be quiet, you’re ruining it,” Richie says. “I have a plan. You’ll see. All I need is three days tops and it will be nothing but the Richie Tozier Summer of Love.”</p><p>Stan hums. “Three days. That’s ambitious.”</p><p>“Well, it took him twenty seconds to fall in love, so…”</p><p>“I, for one, am <em>excited</em> for the Richie Tozier Summer of Love,” Patty says loyally, “no matter how long it takes.” She turns to him, placing a hand on his knee. “Don’t let it take longer than the summer though. We don’t have that kind of time.”</p><p>“It won’t!” Richie insists. “I told you: <em>I have a plan!” </em></p>
<hr/><p>Richie does not have a plan and it does not take three days.</p><p>What he <em>does</em> have is a phone he now charges nightly because he spends most of the time he should be writing jokes stalking Eddie’s Instagram, and the Instagrams of people Eddie tags in his photos.</p><p>He determines two things:</p><p>One—Eddie has never <em>not</em> been really fucking attractive, even, like, four years ago, when he was still a baby-faced teenager.</p><p>Two—He looks to be incredibly single, but there’s no telling which way he swings. </p><p>Richie is not sure what this information means for him, but he files it away as important anyway.</p>
<hr/><p>On day five of the Richie Tozier Summer of Love, Eddie’s at the slide pool, a yellow and blue monstrosity that always has a long line of tweens wrapping around from the top of the stairs.</p><p>It’s only Stan and Richie today, but Patty sends live updates from the Aladdin in their group chat (<em>#StozierBlum) </em>and individual messages to Richie telling him to <em>kill it! </em>and <em>today’s the day! </em>and <em>ur cute he’s cute it’s destiiiiiiny!!!!! </em></p><p>Sometimes Richie likes her best.</p><p>Stan’s got one leg out, the other knee up, balancing a book, and Richie’s flat on his stomach, pretending to watch the kids go down the slide over and over. Really he’s just staring at Eddie, who has moved from his lifeguard chair to the corner of the pool, the only place in the shade, and closest to the kids, who talk his ear off.</p><p>“You gotta pick the second one,” he says to one of them, who is pouting over losing his race to his friend. “It’s fastest.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Eddie says. “I didn’t make it. Just—get out of the way and watch them.” He points and the kid pulls himself over the side to sit beside him, watching two others.</p><p>Richie doesn’t bother to see if his advice is correct—it probably is—and focuses his gaze on Eddie’s profile instead, on the sharp line of his jaw and the dimple in his cheek when he smiles. His teeth are so white.</p><p>“You are radiating so much energy right now,” Stan mutters. “Just go over there and talk to him. You’re driving me nuts.”</p><p>“He’s talking to children,” Richie says. “I can’t interrupt that. It’s sacred.”</p><p>Stan sighs, deep and tired, like being Richie’s friend is an ordeal. It probably is, but he’s still here, so!</p><p>“Oh my god,” Richie blurts. “Oh my god, Stan, look.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Stan.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Stan, you <em>have </em>to. He’s helping a little girl!”</p><p>“That’s literally in his job description,” Stan replies, “and I’ve seen him help little girls plenty all week. It’s not—oh, don’t… Richie, are you seriously <em>sitting up? </em>This is more embarrassing than if you just got up and went over there. I’m moving.”</p><p>Richie crosses his legs in front of him, pretzel-style, and pushes his sunglasses in front of his eyes. Eddie blows his whistle up at whoever is manning the top, and kicks away from the wall, swimming easily to the slide closest to Richie, where this tiny thing, a real shrimp of a girl, is caught in the current that’s created when the racing water of the slide meets the calm of the pool. She can’t seem to get away from it, stuck against the slide, and Eddie coaxes her away, showing her how to use all of her force to swim to the side and latch on.</p><p>She nods, a bit nervously, but he just smiles (<em>oh my god),</em> and says, “Hey, wanna take a ride the rest of the way?”</p><p>“Okay,” she says, and he brings her down the length of the pool on this red rescue tube, making a whole production of it. He’s a lot stronger than Richie thought initially, able to sending her flying left and right, sending waves of water over the sides.</p><p>She’s laughing.</p><p>He’s laughing.</p><p>Richie’s heart has burst <em>again</em> for a grand total of seventeen times in the past five days alone. He wonders how much more he can take or if he’s just got spares locked up in storage closets in the cavities of his chest for moments like this.</p><p>“There we go,” Eddie announces once they’ve reached the steps. “Why don’t you try that again and get out of the pool all by yourself?”</p><p>Trepidation filters across the girl’s face; she looks from the top of the slide to its opening at the bottom and bites her lip.</p><p>Eddie smiles easily, like his face was built for it and nothing else. “I’ll be right here,” he promises her. “I’ll be right in the middle. I won’t even leave the water.”</p><p>She debates it, rocking back and forth on her heels, and then says, “Okay,” and races to the stairs.</p><p>Eddie laughs, calling, “Hey, don’t run!”</p><p>“Oops!” she shouts back, but she’s already halfway up the stairs now.</p><p>Invested, Richie watches her get to the top and look back down, trying to find Eddie. He points to the slide she was just on, apparently number two, this speed-demon of a thing, and she bobs her head before gripping the handle above it and throwing herself onto it. She zooms down it, so small in comparison to the speed and pressure that Richie can see her body literally <em>fly</em> off the thing when she hits a bump. She’s back in the water in a flash, cackling as she bursts free, and this time she knows how to make it further into the pool without getting caught.</p><p>She kicks away from the mouth of the slide immediately, grips the side of the pool, and shimmies down halfway, slow and steady. When she’s not as close to the pull, she ducks under, racing beneath the water like a fish, and pops up next to Eddie, in the middle, just like he said he’d be.</p><p>She throws her arms around him in a sloppy hug, shouting, “I did it! I did it! I did it!” and Eddie copies her, jumping up and down in the pool until the lifeguard at the top shouts at them to <em>quit it and let other people go down the slide, Kaspbrak!</em></p><p>Eddie laughs, carrying the girl back to the stairs, and when he smiles at her, now chipper and excited, his nose wrinkles and the skin by his eyes crinkles. Richie adds that to his long, long, <em>long </em>list of Eddie Kaspbrak pros.</p><p>The man has no cons.</p><p>Okay, well, maybe he has one, and technically… it’s Richie’s con.</p><p>They haven’t said a single thing to each other since Richie spent that one hundred and seventy-five dollars to join this place, which is actually not that shitty, after all, <em>but. </em>It’s a con, their lack of conversation; it’s a big one.</p><p>And though Richie said he’d only need three days, he actually needed a few more, and it’s not like it’s been two <em>weeks. </em>He’s been doing recon! He’s been figuring him out—his schedule; how he handles people, conversations, and confrontation; who he hangs out with, which is mainly Bill, Ben, and Mike, who works the snack bar. He has yet to figure out if he has an inclination towards men and if he does, if he’s looking for a summer—relationship? Fling? Person to kiss one time (or more) for fun?</p><p>But he knows some things, like how good he is with kids, and that he works almost every single day. Besides him telling Richie at the party he would work all week, Richie weaseled it out of Bev that they physically have to beg him to take days off. He eats his lunch with Mike every single day, sitting on the counter of the snack bar and breaking a bunch of health code violations, according to Stan. He borrowed Bill’s denim bucket hat one time and rocked it so well Richie had half a mind to tell him to steal it before he remembered that he’s never once had a casual conversation with the kid.</p><p>He’s so busy thinking about Eddie that he doesn’t realize Eddie’s talking to him, his mouth moving in Richie’s general direction several feet away.</p><p>Richie blinks at him from behind his glasses, frowning, unable to make out a thing he said.</p><p>“What?” he asks, and then—</p><p>Wait.</p><p>Pause.</p><p>Rewind.</p><p>
  <em>Eddie is talking to him? </em>
</p><p>Richie shoves his glasses into his hair, rubs a knuckle into his eye, a stupid move that irritates it by combining chlorine and sweat, making it hard to see.</p><p>Eddie grins sheepishly back. <em>Looks different than the actual smile, </em>Richie notes, mentally jotting that down as casually as he would a good bit for a joke.</p><p>Eddie shoves a thumb at the slide, raises his voice. “Slide’s really loud, sorry! I just—” He bites down on his lower lip, a motion Richie cannot easily ignore, the look of it sending a swooping feeling straight to his belly. “Your shoulders are burning.”</p><p>
  <em>I… </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well.</em>
</p><p>Richie tries to look down at them, but it’s hard. Instead, he presses his fingertips to the skin, feels the heat, sees the imprints he leaves, and groans loudly, dropping his head into his damp towel. The angle is uncomfortable, Richie feeling like an ostrich as the ache grows, spreading down his spine.</p><p>Eddie laughs, and he can’t even be mad it’s at his expense. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world, and Richie used to give that honor to the entirety of David Bowie’s <em>Heroes. </em></p><p>A moment passes, or maybe it’s two—<em>three, </em>at most—the sound of Eddie’s laughter echoing in Richie’s ears. The humidity builds in the space between his face and the towel, making it hard to breathe, and—</p><p>“Hey, you got sunscreen in this bag of yours or just this remarkably shitty Hawaiian shirt?”</p><p>“Just because you can’t rock a Hawaiian shirt doesn’t mean you can dis good fashion sense,” Richie’s mouth says before the neurons in his brain can catch up with each other.</p><p>And when they do…</p><p>
  <em>When they do…</em>
</p><p>Richie flips forward spastically, limbs everywhere like he’s got twenty extra. He gets caught in the spaces between his chair, knuckles skidding across the concrete, and somehow in his hair. His glasses poke him in the eye somehow. He’s surprised he doesn’t hit Eddie in the fucking face, the way he moves.</p><p>When’s upright once again, he finds Eddie sitting on Stan’s abandoned towel; he really <em>did </em>leave, the <em>traitor.</em></p><p>“Uh,” Richie says. “There is sunscreen. Somewhere. And I want you to know I do know how to put it on. I set timers and everything. I just have… an aversion… to… to the sun?”</p><p>Eddie’s mouth twitches. “You are very pale,” he agrees. “Like a vampire.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Richie nods. “Want to hear a secret?”</p><p>Eddie’s eyes twinkle. He leans forward, just a bit. “Always.”</p><p>Voice low, a conspiratorial whisper, Richie says, “I’m actually one hundred and sixteen years old, and I really can’t stand you because the smell of your blood is so enticing.”</p><p>Even before he’s finished speaking, his mind is shooting at haywire levels of panic: <em>oh my god, did he just—a fucking </em>Twilight <em>reference? Oh my g—</em></p><p>But Eddie giggles—a <em>giggle! </em>New, pertinent, cute, cute, <em>cute </em>information—and replies, “Are you saying you’re Edward and I’m Bella? Are we in a poorly written vampire romance novel turned movie franchise? Oh my god, <em>wait.” </em>He slaps Richie in the chest. His touch <em>burns. </em>“Is <em>that</em> why you haven’t said a word to me since the party? You’re afraid if you get too close you’ll eat me?”</p><p>Richie swallows. <em>Eat you. Yup. That’s what—that’s what I am afraid of. My desire to… eat you. </em>“I am neither confirming nor denying,” he says, refraining from licking his dry lips. He sniffs, looking down, and fiddles with the strings of his trunks, blue with pineapples. “I don’t sparkle in the sun, so that may be a huge indicator of the truth.”</p><p>“There goes my dream of being a vampire’s consort.” Eddie sighs mournfully. “But you <em>can</em> sparkle with the right sunscreen,” he provides, almost suggestively, and Richie thinks he’s got permanent dry mouth now. Doesn’t think he can even swallow if he tried.</p><p><em>Dream of being a… </em>was Richie’s hope a reality? Was Eddie… did he mean…?</p><p>“Speaking of.” Eddie holds up Richie’s well-used bottle sunscreen, the highest SPF he could find at the drugstore. “Want me to get your shoulders? You don’t want them to burn anymore than they already have.”</p><p>Richie stiffens at the thought of Eddie’s hands on him (probably noticeable), meets Eddie’s gaze as head-on as he can (his eyes are this caramel brown color Richie kind of wants to… lick up. Is that gross? It’s gross), and says, “You don’t have other girls to help face their fears?”</p><p>Eddie’s cheeks go pink. “You saw?”</p><p>“Yeah, dude,” Richie says. “Highlight of my day—after that kid deliberately ignored Kay when she told him not to cannonball in the deep end. Those teen girls were <em>piiiiiiiiissed.”</em></p><p>“The pool’s deep, but not deep enough for him to do that safely,” Eddie says, all informative and knowledgeable about pools. It’s kind of hot. “I mean, it is, but it’s just… mainly annoying? And he’d probably get hurt which would be our fault, so.” He shrugs. “And that girl was way too small to be allowed on the slide anyway, even if she was tall enough. There wasn’t enough of her to not get stuck, but also whatever. She was cute. She learned.”</p><p>“All because of you,” Richie teases, “and to think, there are so many other cute little girls who need to learn things from you and you’re here with little ol’ me!”</p><p>It sounds like he’s trying to make Eddie leave, and in part he is, but he really isn’t. He’s just—he’s <em>scared</em> he’ll make a terrible face or, even worse, a terrible <em>sound</em> when he feels the touch of Eddie’s hands. He’s surprised he’s handling this conversation as well as he is.</p><p>Eddie snorts. “I’d much rather be here, believe me,” he says, “and they can learn from Bev. It’s her turn.”</p><p>Richie glances over his burning shoulder, where Bev is submerged in the slide pool. She wiggles her fingers at him and blows him an obnoxious kiss. He hates her. He loves her.</p><p>“Unfortunate,” he says. “Her bedside manner leaves nothing to be desired.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, “she can be a little…”</p><p>A whistle blows, sharp and harsh. “Run <em>one more time, </em>Joshua, and I will <em>ban you </em>from this pool!”</p><p>“You can’t do that!” Josh’s whiny voice calls back.</p><p>“<em>Watch me!” </em>Bev barks, which does nothing but make Josh <em>and</em> Richie and Eddie burst out laughing.</p><p>Bev flips the two of them off and says to a boy who couldn’t be more than eight, “Don’t you ever do that, and if you do, don’t tell your parents you learned it from me.”</p><p>“She’s such a delight.”</p><p>“Yeah, we’re—kind of exactly the same,” Richie admits. “That’s why we’re friends. We’re both like <em>fuck it, what’s the point?” </em></p><p>Eddie cocks his head to the side. “I see that,” he says. “Sort of. It’s not like we’ve interacted enough for me to really know, but… Bev collects people just like her.”</p><p>“Has she collected you, then? Are you one of us?”</p><p>“Not sure.” Eddie squeezes a glob of sunblock into his palm and raises his hand towards Richie’s shoulder. “We share candy a lot.”</p><p>Richie takes a moment to deliberate it and then takes on the Richie-and-Bev mindset of <em>fuck it, what’s the point, </em>and says, “Yeah, get my shoulders, please. I never do them right and Stan refuses to help.”</p><p>“Wasn’t Stan just here?” Eddie asks, rubbing his hands together. He gets up to go around to Richie’s back and plops down behind him.</p><p>Richie’s heartbeat races at their close proximity, chest to back, and wonders how far it can travel, his pulse, and if Eddie will be able to feel it in his shoulders. But after a moment’s consideration, he can’t think of anything other than the glorious relief of sunscreen on his baking skin… and Eddie’s fingers, massaging it in.</p><p>He replies, “Yeah,” after several beats, trying not to focus on the way Eddie fits in behind him. He clears his throat to control his voice. “He… I guess I was interfering with his book reading, so he left. He gets sick of me real quick, being my roommate and all, and he never helps me with my sunscreen application because he loves when terrible things happen to me.”</p><p>“And yet he comes here with you, like, every day.”</p><p>“I am his only friend.”</p><p>“That can’t be true.”</p><p>“It’s not. It’s a complete lie. Stan is a gem and people love him,” Richie says. “But between you and me, I think he’s willing to come to the pool because he’s in a Goodreads reading challenge with his girlfriend—”</p><p>“—Patty, cute, works at the movie theatre—”</p><p>“—yes, and he uses this pool time to read more books than her.”</p><p>“Seems unfair. Are there rules to this challenge? I feel like there should be rules.”</p><p>Richie shrugs and feels Eddie’s hands move with the action. “I have no idea. I just know he’s gone through, like, four books alone in the time we’ve been coming here.”</p><p>“It’s been five days!”</p><p>“We stay until close!” Richie exclaims, a sharp zing racing through his body. Eddie knows how long he’s been coming to the pool. Eddie’s been <em>paying attention. </em></p><p>“True,” Eddie remarks, “and you always buy those chocolate éclair ice creams from Mike.”</p><p>“They’re the best kind,” says Richie. “And the strawberry shortcake ones aren’t bad either. Wait, but why do you know that?”</p><p>Eddie laughs. “You get, like, three a day. Mike’s been counting.”</p><p>“<em>Mike,” </em>Richie says, like that’s a big deal or something. He’s probably doing inventory.</p><p>“He’s gotta know what to buy more of at the end of the week!” Eddie insists. He squeezes more sunscreen onto Richie’s shoulder, this time kneading his way down to his upper back, between the blades. “But back to Stan. He’s out here, speed-reading books to beat his girlfriend while you… get sunburnt?”</p><p>“That’s the arrangement, yes,” Richie says. “It… that’s what it is. In a nutshell.”</p><p>“And that benefits you how?” Eddie asks. “Are you also part of the reading challenge?”</p><p>“Have you <em>seen </em>me with a book?” Richie retorts. “I’m here because I—because I love the ambiance.”</p><p>As he says this, a child starts wailing and its mother exasperatedly tells it to <em>be quiet or we’re leaving, </em>which results in <em>more </em>tears. Some obnoxious teen yells <em>MARCO </em>to a chorus of <em>POLOS!</em> Somewhere else, a man’s voice talks loudly about his summer landscaping plans, and another asks for advice on purchasing a house in the Hamptons.</p><p>Eddie blinks, cocking his head to the side, and digs two fingers into the muscle between Richie’s shoulder and collarbone. “You love the <em>ambiance,” </em>Eddie repeats. “This? You love <em>this?” </em></p><p>Richie shivers at his touch, at the light massaging of his tense points, and breathes, “Oh, yeah, kids crying? <em>Suuuuuper </em>my thing, and I can’t wait to tell that guy all about how shitty his lawn is gonna look when I get up to pee. My mom’s gardening hobby will kick his thousand-dollar-an-hour landscaper’s <em>ass.” </em></p><p>Eddie’s silence is palpable and unconvinced. “You love <em>this</em> ambiance,” he says again. “You want to tell <em>that</em> guy, who is <em>much</em> bigger than you”—<em>oh my god he knows how big I am, my size, he is </em>feeling <em>my shoulders—“</em>that his landscaping plans are stupid?”</p><p>“Well,” Richie begins, snapping his teeth shut as Eddie’s touch gets deeper. “I guess I kind of like the lifeguards, too, but not as much as I love that Janice is causing a temper tantrum because her mom won’t let her get chicken tenders for the third time today.”</p><p>“Oh,” Eddie says. “The lifeguards. That’s what you’re here for?”</p><p>“No, I’m here to witness Janice throw a—oh my god, her mom <em>agreed, </em>she’s getting chicken tenders for the <em>fourth </em>time. Oh my god, Eds, are you <em>seeing this?” </em></p><p>“I’m hearing… <em>Eds?” </em></p><p>“Yeah, like. Eds. <em>Eds. </em>Do you not…? Is that not a thing I should—”</p><p>“—no, no, it’s just… no one’s ever given me a…” Eddie clears his throat, smoothing his palm across Richie’s shoulders. “You’re not actually here for Janice, who is a little shit anyway. Mike gives her more tenders than is actually in the order just to shut her up.” He squirts more sunscreen in his hand, and rubs the heel of it into Richie’s neck all the way up to his ears, which also seem to be burned. “The lifeguards, though.”</p><p>“Yep. Love me some lifeguards,” Richie replies. “I used to binge <em>Baywatch </em>with my mom when I was little. I’m all about ‘em. Even better that Bev’s hair and the bathing suit are so terribly suited for each other. It brings me such joy to see her in this state.”</p><p>“That’s true,” Eddie agrees, laughing a little. “It’s a shame we only wear red. If we had, like, white suits, she’d at least have some chance.”</p><p>“Oh, little, dude,” Richie starts, twisting around to find Eddie’s face so <em>remarkably </em>close to his. Jesus. Oh my god. “She’s even pastier than me. White will wash her out in a second.”</p><p>Eddie looks over at her, hand still splayed at Richie’s neck, holding him gently, touch almost as hot as the sunburn at his shoulders. Richie thinks he’s sweating under it, but that’s fine, right? It’s fine. It’s, like… real-feel ninety-four degrees and <em>rising. </em></p><p>“But all the freckles!” Eddie insists, turning back. “If she doesn’t burn, she’s got, like, all of these Lindsay Lohan freckles, and those are so—”</p><p>“—you have some,” Richie blurts, and <em>oh god, </em>is his hand moving to his face? Is he going to <em>touch </em>Eddie Kaspbrak’s cheeks like he’s allowed to? <em>Is he actually touching him? </em>Oh my god, he <em>is.</em> “Right here. All over.” He brushes his fingers along Eddie’s face, where the skin rises because he’s squinting straight at Richie.</p><p>Eddie coughs. Clears his throat. “Yeah. I, uh. I freckle. Sometimes. Mainly I tan, though.”</p><p>“And I sunburn,” Richie replies. “Thanks for stating the obvious.”</p><p>Eddie smiles this time, a tiny quirk of the lips at the corner. “If you keep applying sunscreen, I think you can get a <em>little </em>glow… and sit beneath an umbrella! Do you want sun poisoning? It’s not fun.”</p><p>“Yeah, I bet, but, like, if I sit there”—Richie feels his foot begin to enter his mouth, but he can’t pull it out fast enough—“I won’t have as good a view of you as I do here.”</p><p>Richie closes his mouth, mortification running through his veins, and tries to shift away from Eddie—his body, his hands, his overall orbit, but his own fingers are still on Eddie’s cheeks. He tries to backtrack, mind whirling, gears turning so fast and so hard they’re just spinning in place, overheating, as he tries to find a way out of this.</p><p>How could he have…?</p><p>Out of all the things to… <em>I won’t have as good a view of you as I do here… </em>really? Fucking <em>really? </em>Zero to one hundred real fucking fast, Tozier. Don’t even bother getting your toes wet—just jump right in!</p><p>But whatever he said—and he can’t pretend he doesn’t know—it plays on a loop in his head, embarrassment ruining every part of it, including the bit where it’s <em>such </em>a good line, like that’s some A-plus flirting right there. It makes Eddie’s eyes sparkle, enhancing the golden shade of brown Richie can easily fall into.</p><p>Eddie smiles, cheeks bunching beneath Richie’s hand. “You’ll still be able to see me <em>and </em>protect your body from further damage,” he promises.</p><p>Richie swallows back his freak out—he can have it <em>later, </em>okay, body? <em>Later. </em></p><p>“Debatable,” he says, looking over at the array of umbrellas. They’re normally already taken by the time Richie gets here, a number of women, a group of moms, he thinks, claiming them and then pulling their chairs out into the sun when they want to tan.</p><p>“Try it out,” Eddie suggests. “You never know what might happen.”</p><p>“You’re right,” Richie agrees. “I could be closer to Janice and her mom, a real dream come true!”</p><p>“There you go,” Eddie says. “A silver lining.”</p><p>Richie pinches Eddie’s cheek. “Thanks for helping me make all my dreams come true, Eds.”</p><p>“That’s what I’m here for.”</p><p>“I thought you were here to lifeguard.”</p><p>“Well, that, too, but only part-time, and speaking of that…” Eddie shoots up when Bill emerges from the office, searching the poolside with clear intent to find—probably Eddie, if his reaction means anything. “I was never here. I mean, I was. Don’t think I didn’t want to be here, but I was also, uh. Never here. Does that make sense?”</p><p>“Not even a little,” Richie says. “You got it, chief.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Eddie smiles again. Richie thinks that’s his favorite view—the big grin, the white teeth, the red lips. He wants to paint it to the inside of his eyelids so he can see it forever. “I’ll have to come up with a nickname for you, you know, since you gave me one.”</p><p>Richie shrugs a shoulder, suddenly embarrassed by the slipup. “People call me Trashmouth,” he tells him. “I talk a lot of shit. It was an insult in junior high, but I, uh… I embraced it.”</p><p>“That can’t be right,” Eddie says, “and that’s an ugly nickname. I’ll think of a better one.”</p><p>“You don’t—it doesn’t… if you don’t like Eds, you don’t have to come up with anything—”</p><p>“No, I like Eds,” Eddie replies. “It’s different. No one ever calls me anything other than… my mom always just called me… and that was…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It’s nice. It’s like a secret identity or something. Like I’m someone other than Eddie, you know?” He reaches his hand out like he wants to touch Richie’s hair or his shoulder or—maybe he’s imagining it—his <em>mouth</em> but pulls back. He winks instead. “And you deserve to be someone other than a reworked sixth grade insult. I’ll come up with something.”</p><p>And then he’s off, speed-walking around the pool in the opposite direction of Bill, sneaking into the lifeguard office behind his back.</p><p>From the slide pool behind him, Richie hears, “Now wasn’t <em>that </em>something.”</p><p>Richie flips her off.</p><p>“You can say you learned that from him,” Bev tells a kid. “How many times do you plan on going down this slide?”</p>
<hr/><p><em>#StozierBlum</em> </p><p><strong>stanny sent an image<br/>
</strong> <strong>stanny: didn’t realize we were shooting a soft core porn here at the derry township public pool<br/>
</strong> <strong>stanny sent an image<br/>
</strong> <strong>stanny sent an image<br/>
</strong> <strong>stanny sent an image</strong></p><p><em>mrs stanny: my baby!!!!!!<br/>
</em> <em>mrs stanny: look at him!!!!!<br/>
</em> <em>mrs stanny: PROGRESS<br/>
</em> <em>mrs stanny: connor bowers came to the movie theatre to see a romcom by himself</em></p><p><em> <span class="u">third wheel: stan r u a spy<br/>
</span> </em> <em> <span class="u">third wheel: patty did connor cry??? i need to know for science<br/>
</span> </em> <em> <span class="u">third wheel: his skin is so soft :( i wanted to touch forever<br/>
third wheel: to clarify i mean eddie not connor bowers</span> </em></p><p>
  <strong>stanny: wait patty am i not your baby? </strong>
</p><p><em>mrs stanny: no ur the love of my life<br/>
</em> <em>mrs stanny: theres a difference<br/>
</em> <em>mrs stanny: ya he cried but he pretended it was his allergies</em></p><p>
  <em> <span class="u">third wheel: classic<br/>
third wheel: my name has also never felt more apt</span> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>mrs stanny changed third wheel’s name to mr beach babe</em>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The iPhone weather app reads: <em>Sunny. High of 95. Low of 73. </em>The humidity’s at a whopping seventy-six percent. No one would blame Richie for skipping out on the pool to lounge in the air conditioning at the movie theatre with Stan—Patty’s working again—except for maybe, well… Richie himself.</p><p>He’s got a plan, right? The <em>Summer of Fucking Love. </em>Time doesn’t stop, or take cool down breaks, so neither does Richie, and that’s how he finds himself at the public pool on the hottest day so far. He’s convinced this is what the seventh layer of hell feels like.</p><p>He’s snagged one of Patty’s floppy beach hats, packed a rarely used soft cooler with several cold bottles of water and an entire thermos of ice cubes, and manages to steal an umbrella chair away from one of the usuals, which grants him some nasty looks and one-liners, but he’s Richie Tozier. He’s dealt with worse than whatever these women have to say. At least he doesn’t come to the pool with his <em>makeup done</em> every day. Jeez.</p><p>Knees bent, tops of his feet definitely getting burnt, Richie scribbles jokes on a discarded notebook he found in the junk drawer. Its cover reads <em>First I drink the coffee, then I do the things, </em>which is the opposite of who Richie is as a person. He’s normally got enough energy to make it through the day without caffeine.</p><p>He has a gig coming up, and he’s been workshopping the same set with each audience, changing things and cutting others, but he feels like he needs something new to spice it up. He knows he can work the sunburn in here somehow, test the waters on if Derry’s still as fucking homophobic as ever, and let them all know about his incredibly amusing (to bystanders) and embarrassing (to himself) crush on this male lifeguard. He crosses his fingers then and there, hoping it goes well, hoping he’ll actually <em>do it, </em>hoping he won’t get beat up in an alley behind the club.</p><p>All of Bowers’ goons are gone, in jail or dead just like him, and those who stayed never cared much for Richie’s proclivities or strange behaviors, so he’s sure he’ll be fine, but… it’s still a bit too close to home, maybe. He draws a big question mark in the corner and decides to ask Stan his opinion.</p><p>Stan thinks everyone will laugh at a funny joke, no matter the subject matter, so if it’s good he’ll get his vote of approval. Even not, he and Patty and Bev will love the gay rendition of his stand-up material; they get it all the time.</p><p>He crosses out a word he doesn’t like, puts what he means in parenthesis next to it, and continues on with the sentence, just to have it on the page, when a shadow falls over him.</p><p>He shouldn’t be surprised, but he always is.</p><p>“Is that… no, it can’t be… my eyes must be deceiving me.”</p><p>“Oh, har, har, <em>har,”</em> Richie replies, eyes pinned to his book. “Has anyone ever told you how funny you are, Eds?”</p><p>“I’m just surprised, is all!” Eddie says. “Never would’ve thought the great Richie Tozier would take my advice.”</p><p>“I took no advice,” Richie retorts. “I have a vendetta against that woman in the red bathing suit—no, don’t look—and I wanted to take her seat. Did you look? Of course you did. It’s called <em>stealth, </em>Eddie.”</p><p>“I glanced over once and she didn’t even notice,” Eddie retorts. “I just wanted to see if she was the one who gave Paul a hard time last week.”</p><p>“Is she?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Good, then,” Richie replies. “I have no idea who Paul is, but I love to stick it to the man. Fuck that lady.”</p><p>Eddie nudges at his feet with a knee. “Budge over,” he says. “Want a Twizzler?”</p><p>Richie holds a hand out, pleased by the lack of tremor, even though his heart races. Eddie gives him, like, three candies and shoves at his feet, settling at the end of the lounge chair.</p><p>With his mouth full, he asks, “What are you doing? Writing the next great American novel? Ooh, the next <em>Twilight?” </em></p><p>“Oh, yeah.” Richie loops a swirl on the page, disrupting his furious notes. “But we’re getting the gay vampires we deserve.” He coughs around an uncomfortable laugh, dropping his pen, and ripping at a Twizzler. “But, um. I tell jokes. For a living. Sort of? Kinda?”</p><p>Eddie nods, biting into the Twizzler with a ferocity that almost startles Richie, but mainly just makes him wonder what it would be like for that mouth to suck at <em>his </em>neck like that. He shivers, then scratches at the back of it like the thought never occurred to him.</p><p>“You mentioned that,” he says, “at the party.”</p><p>“I did?”</p><p>“Yeah,” says Eddie. “Is that the new material you’ve been working on?”</p><p>“Um. Yes.” Richie drops his elbows down as casually as he can so Eddie can’t see the <em>joined the community pool I’ve been avoiding for fifteen years because the hottest guy I’ve ever sort of seen—I have bad terrible eyesight, ask anyone who knows me—was wearing a lifeguard shirt and leaving the premises long after closing. </em>Not like he’s peering over the top of his notebook or anything, but still. “The pool is giving me nothing today though.”</p><p>“Do you normally tell jokes about other people?”</p><p>“Only with their consent,” Richie says. “Like, if it’s explicitly about them. I’ll tell jokes about other people in relation to me and I’ll never say names or anything, or I’ll change them if it’s important. Sometimes I’ll just be like, <em>so my roommate, Stan, blah blah blah—” </em></p><p>“That’s not a very funny joke.”</p><p>“You didn’t hear the joke part.”</p><p>“Tell me one then!” Eddie insists.</p><p>“I told you one yesterday.”</p><p>“The thing about you being Edward from <em>Twilight?” </em>Eddie scoffs. “That wasn’t even funny. It was clever.”</p><p>“Being clever is also being funny,” Richie retorts. “I’m witty. That was a good one. You have to admit it.”</p><p>“I don’t have to admit anything. You have to give me something new to work with. How will I know if I want to go to your next gig if I don’t know if you’re funny or not?”</p><p>Richie swallows. “You want to come to one of my shows?”</p><p>“Not if you’re not funny,” Eddie says. “I’d hate to waste my money to find out you’re just <em>witty.” </em></p><p>“Don’t you have lifeguard things to do? Is there a kid that needs saving? Stop wasting all your time with me.”</p><p>“It’s not wasting if I want to be here,” Eddie replies, “and I just got off a rotation. Sorry for seeing you and wondering if you wanted to share Twizzlers with me.”</p><p>Richie exhales noisily through his nose. “Is that why my feet are so wet right now? Did you not towel down?”</p><p>“It’s hot enough to air dry.” Eddie taps his knee. “Joke.”</p><p>“I don’t have a new one,” Richie admits. “I’m trying to figure out how to get the sunburn thing into it.”</p><p>“Oh, this sunburn?” Eddie asks, leaning forward to pinch Richie’s shoulders. “Or this sunburn?” He pokes his chest, right between his nipples, where Richie wasn’t aware he’d burned. “Or this sunburn?” He triple taps Richie’s nose.</p><p>Richie debates attempting to bite him, like he would if this were Stan, but smothers that down as quickly as it comes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, tease the guy who sunburns in the shade.”</p><p>“Hey, I’m not teasing!” Eddie insists. “It’s kinda cute, actually.”</p><p>“Whatever happened to <em>protecting my body from future—”</em> He breaks off, slow and dragging, like he’s thought of something else, and he has. His mind freezes, and he’s lucky his mouth does, too, or else he’d have no idea what was coming out of it. His body doesn’t know self-preservation unless his brain tells it to him explicitly.</p><p>
  <em>Cute.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s kinda cute. </em>
</p><p>Eddie called him <em>cute. </em></p><p>“Sunburn gets you goin’, Eddie Spaghetti?” he asks, swallowing around the lump in his throat before he looks up, the first time since Eddie arrived—barring the quick glances, of course. He’s not<em> totally </em>rude.</p><p>And of <em>course</em> he’d forgotten his sunglasses at home. Of course, of course, <em>of course. </em>Boy, was today a bad day to have his face on full display.</p><p>“Maybe,” Eddie replies teasingly. “Do nicknames get <em>you </em>goin’?” He smiles at him, dimpling up a storm, but the sentence sounds tinny and far away, like the two of them are standing miles and miles apart, yelling across a gaping chasm.</p><p>There’s not even three feet between them. Not even two. <em>One, </em>maybe, and Richie has no fucking idea what he just said. For all he knows, Eddie told him he wanted to do seven cartwheels in a row, or that he wanted to cut Richie’s hair off and donate it to cancer patients, or that he wanted to submit Richie’s brain to science.</p><p>But words are not important right now, not forming them, not speaking them, not <em>hearing </em>them.</p><p>Words are—</p><p>They’re not even—</p><p><em>What are they? How do they work? </em> </p><p>Richie can’t create a sentence in his own <em>mind, </em>let alone figure out what Eddie’s trying to say to him. All he can focus on, all that fills the void, even empty of his rattling conscience, is <em>how close</em> Eddie is. How close, how casual, and <em>how shirtless. </em></p><p>And, yeah, okay, it’s a pool, Richie knows that. Eddie is almost always shirtless. Fuck, the first time he saw him, beneath shitty parking lot lights and the slowly setting sun, Eddie was shirtless, but today there’s just… it feels… It’s almost like the time Richie finally got the right prescription for his glasses and everything was—he could finally fucking <em>see. </em>It’s like that now: the world is in perfect clarity; the sky is a stunning shade of blue and the few clouds are plump and white; and there is <em>so much</em> fucking definition in Eddie’s abs.</p><p>Eddie also, for some godawful reason, has perfect posture, which gives Richie the best fucking view.</p><p>He had mentioned he’d come straight from a rotation, but he’d failed to share that he must’ve cooled down with a swim or a ride down the slide—some lifeguards, when their shifts are over up top, take the slide down to continue their jobs in the pool below—or… or… or… Richie doesn’t fucking know. He’d been under the impression his trunks were just damp, but it’s all of him that’s wet: stomach, legs, arms, face, hair. Richie watches the water drip, wrapping around his collarbones and sliding down his chest to the grooves of the muscles in his abdomen, lining them, curving them, touching in a way Richie’s tongue begs to.</p><p>Eddie is so golden and so toned and <em>so fucking hot,</em> sitting in front of him. A leg is on either side of the chair as he occupies the same space as Richie, who is a red fucking blob of a person who cannot, literally <em>cannot,</em> be worthy to breathe the same air as him.</p><p>His mind spins.</p><p>Races.</p><p>Takes him to places he should never go, not with a person he’s hardly interacted with, and definitely not in public.</p><p>His brain creates the scenario for him: a world where he’s braver than he’s ever been, a world where he doesn’t end up sunburnt to a crisp, body stinging and aching. Here, he’d reach out and touch with deliberation, fingertips dancing across the dips of his hips and beneath the band of his shorts. He’d toss his notebook aside, not caring if his humiliating crush is written out for all to see, and press his mouth to that stomach, lick every inch of him, right here at the pool, not caring that it’s Eddie’s place of work and Richie’s parents know some of these patrons and Richie himself has gone to school with practically all of the staff.</p><p>He’d put on a show for these bored, catty housewives and give the men a few pointers on how to be givers not takers. He’d kiss his way up to Eddie’s mouth, where he’d devote the time and energy it takes to pry moans and groans and whimpers from the confines of his throat. His mind could take it further, give into his animalistic desires on this lounge chair, pulling shorts down and rutting against bare skin, but he pauses the fantasy, leaves it racy and suggestive, but with enough promise to show the Eddie in his head what he can do to him later—in the bathroom, in the car, in the privacy of a bedroom…</p><p>Richie swallows, heat climbing up his back and settling into his ears, his cheeks. He’s grateful for the shadow of Patty’s hat and the temperature outside, giving him the opportunity to hide his thoughts…</p><p>Thoughts that keep going, and going, and <em>going.</em></p><p>He wonders what Eddie would do, if he did all that. If he did less. Wonders what his hands would feel like on his skin, now that he knows the smooth way they apply sunscreen. Wonders how he kisses. Is he a dominant person? Does he want to control the encounter or does he step back, submissive to someone else? Will it be a fight of teeth and lips, hair pulling and hands grabbing? Will it be the soft slide of skin and sweep of tongue, cautious and wondering? Will it be the best kiss of Richie’s life?</p><p>Yes to that. No doubt.</p><p>A guy who looks like Eddie must know how to kiss. Must know how to use his body, to arch and take and want and <em>need. </em>He’s been able to match Richie verbally the few times they’ve successfully spoken (read: twice) and Richie imagines he’ll be able to do the same physically. The thought sends another shiver down his spine, pleasure warming him from the inside out and settling straight in his—</p><p>Eddie snaps his fingers in his face. “Earth to Richie,” he says, voice light and amused, like he knows exactly what Richie was doing. “My eyes are up here.”</p><p><em>You have eyes? </em>Richie asks, or thinks, or—something. Though he knows he does. Richie’s had vivid dreams about them, staring at him, filling with want and fire and falling apart beneath him. Above him. At Richie’s touch. But the thought of the eyes—<em>oh, god, those are so pretty—</em>compared to this perfect musculature of his stomach… the six-pack he can so easily reach out and—</p><p>His mouth is…</p><p>…and his tongue is…</p><p>…and his heart—it’s, like, in his throat? His stomach? His ears?</p><p>Words and thoughts are blocked from all directions until the only thing he can unlock his jaw to say is the singular thing running through his mind.</p><p>“Please,” he blurts, like he’s begging, and maybe he is, “<em>please</em> tell me you’re into guys.”</p><p>Eddie laughs, hard and startled, like the thing got caught on the way out.</p><p>The sound reverberates like it’s just the two of them, back in that gaping chasm, stuck in empty space. It echoes in Richie’s ears, sends a wave of nausea crashing over him, rolling slow down his body. He vaguely thinks of how embarrassing it’d be to throw up here, right in his lap, on the page of jokes he’s going to throw the fuck away, and then he remembers he’s vomited in worse places than the Derry public pool on the hottest day of the year. He just can’t remember them. Can’t remember what could possibly be more awful than this.</p><p>Richie blinks, cursing himself for the lack of sunglasses again, and forces himself to look at Eddie, to face this head-on, like he so rarely faces anything.</p><p>Eddie’s cheeks are bright red. His lip is tugged so hard between his teeth it’s practically disappeared. He sounds like he’s choked on a snort or a sob or <em>something</em> when he finally lets go and opens his mouth. “Was I being too subtle?”</p><p>Richie feels his nose twitch. “<em>Too—”</em></p><p>“Bill says I never learned how to flirt correctly,” Eddie presses on, quick like he doesn’t have the breath for it, like he won’t be able to explain himself properly if he speaks like a normal person. “Says I always just sit and wait too long for people to… that subtlety is something I excel at but it’s not always a good—did you think I normally comment on people’s sunburns and touch their skin? I think that’s, like, a sexual harassment violation—oh my god, do you think I sexually—”</p><p>“I, uh—no, I just… I… you’re a lifeguard!” Richie blurts, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He suddenly feels dehydrated. He wants one of his six bottles of water. “How am I supposed to know what’s normal for you? Bev would—”</p><p>“Bev’s your roommate!” Eddie says. “I don’t go out of my way to touch people I’m not interested in. We had a whole meeting about decorum and proper workplace ethics because some kid last year kept making this girl uncomfortable by applying sunscreen to her back for her, and I would—Richie, I would <em>never—” </em></p><p>“Yeah, I get it, you would never sexually harass someone. You are a real stand up guy, Eds. I tip my hat to you.” Richie has to fight back the urge to flick his wrist in the small gesture, like he physically grabs his arm with his other hand and squeezes tight.</p><p>“So, um, yeah,” Eddie says uncomfortably, “I’m, um. Yeah. I am into guys, Richie, and I <em>asked</em> before I put the sunscreen on, just so you remember.”</p><p>“Yeah, I remember,” Richie replies. How could he forget? The feel of Eddie’s hands haunts his fucking <em>dreams. </em>“I said you could. I’m bad at sunscreen.”</p><p>Eddie nods. “I know. I see.” He bounces his knee. “And I asked because I am into guys and I thought you were—”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I, uh. So do I,” Richie replies. “So am I? I am. Boys, I like—<em>yes.”</em> He clears his throat, unsure of what kind of information they’ve just shared with each other. It feels a lot less like an admittance of being gay, or liking boys, or whatever label they have for themselves, and more like they just said that they…</p><p>…each other…</p><p>Richie glances down at his wrist, bare, and exclaims, “Would you look at the time? Sorry, Eds, I gotta go. I have… I must… I just… <em>bye!” </em></p><p>He scrambles to grab his shit, leaving everything but his notebook, which he clutches to his chest like a lifeline, and fucking <em>flees,</em> running even though he’s not supposed to. His heart beats in time to their mutual confessions.</p><p>
  <em>I am into guys and I thought you were…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>…so do I? So am I? Boys, I like—yes… </em>
</p><p>Bev stares at him, bewildered, from the office, getting to her feet abruptly, and Eddie calls his name from where he’s left him. Richie’s thoughts come back full force, running at a thousand miles a minute, stabbing him right in between the eyes.</p><p>
  <em>WHY ARE YOU LEAVING?</em>
</p><p><em>WHY ARE YOU LEAVING?</em> </p><p>
  <em>WHY ARE YOU LEAVING?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>TURN AROUND, DIPSHIT.</em>
</p><p>But Richie ignores himself, doesn’t answer the question—that’d be crazy, right?—and fumbles to unlock his car, parked beneath the shade of a tree. He throws himself into the driver’s seat, turns the key in the ignition, and frantically tries to find music to listen to that doesn’t fucking <em>suck,</em> only to be halfway through <em>Listen To Your Heart, </em>Roxette, on that stupid fucking station he gets.</p><p>He doesn’t change it, just slams his palms against his steering wheel, horn blaring, and demands of what he can see of himself in the rear view mirror, “What the fuck was that? Why’d you… he <em>said…</em> isn’t that what you wanted to hear? It was the perfect opportunity to…”</p><p><em>To what? </em>he thinks viciously. <em>What would you have done? Are you the kind of person who goes after what they want, Richie? </em>It doesn’t sound like his normal thought processes, but rather the mean ones he can easily traverse down, like he used to in high school. <em>Or do you need someone else to lay it out on a platter for you, easy pickings? </em></p><p>
  <em>But isn’t that what Eddie did? Didn’t he—</em>
</p><p>Richie tries to remember the conversation, but he’s so overwhelmed he can’t put the pieces together in the right order. He just knows the answers to his own questions. Knows who he is. Who he <em>always</em> will be. Knows who he’ll never become. What he is now is what he’ll be tomorrow, in a week, in ten years, in fifty.</p><p>He wants, but never gets. Yearns, and yearns, and yearns… and sometimes that yearning gets so bad someone else breaks for him and gives him the push he needs, the push he can never find it in himself to just… to <em>go. </em>To <em>take. </em></p><p>“Two words, ten letters for Richie Tozier,” he mutters into the steering wheel, where he’s resting his forehead. <em>“Scaredy cat.”</em></p><p><em>Torn </em>by Natalie Imbruglia begins and Richie laughs in earnest, hysterical and so tired of himself.</p><p>A perfect opportunity and he just—</p><p>He ran.</p><p>Fucking <em>classic. </em></p><p>There’s a loud bang on the roof of his car, a warning, and then the door opens, the smells of the pool filling the BMW as Bev slips into the passenger seat. “Impromptu karaoke sesh?” she asks dryly.</p><p>“I am pathetic,” Richie says.</p><p>“Only sometimes,” Bev replies, “and in the best ways.”</p><p>“There’s no such thing,” he retorts. “Just pathetic in a bad way and pathetic all the time. Do you know what he said to me, Bev?”</p><p>“I can only imagine,” she says. “I don’t gossip with Eddie Kaspbrak, believe it or not.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know,” Richie says. “You haven’t collected him yet.”</p><p>She hums, a bit with the song and a bit in response to that. “Was waiting for you to.”</p><p>“I think…” Richie begins. Stops. “You know what? I don’t want to have this conversation twice.” Clearing his throat, he says, “Hey, Siri? Call Stan.”</p><p>The phone rings, wherever it is (<em>in his pocket)</em> and Stan says, “This better be good. I just got out of the latest Marvel movie and I have a lot of opinions.”</p><p>“Oh, it’s not,” Richie replies pleasantly, able to mask misery with humor as always. “I’m the worst. I’m hiding in my car. Bev is here.”</p><p>“Oh.” Stan is quiet for a moment. It feels long. “Hi, Bev. Rich, what happened?”</p><p>“Just everything that I wanted to happen!” Richie exclaims. “I think!”</p><p>“And you’re in your car with Bev… why?”</p><p>“Because I’m the worst,” Richie says. “We’ve established that. Keep up.”</p><p>“Sorry.” Richie can practically see him rolling his eyes. “You’re giving me whiplash.”</p><p>“And I’m about to give you even more,” Richie tells him. “I have a plan.”</p><p>“To fix this?” Bev asks. “Stan, he practically sprinted out of the pool. One second he was just sitting there with Eddie and the next he was just fucking <em>running.” </em></p><p>“Sounds right,” comments Stan.</p><p>Richie ignores that. “No, I don’t have a plan to fix that. I don’t think I can ever just fix—whatever that was, but I <em>do </em>have a plan for something else. Just… tell me if it’s crazy and I shouldn’t do it.”</p><p>“It’s crazy,” Stan says immediately. “Do it.”</p><p>“You don’t even know what I’m about to tell you.”</p><p>“No, he’s right,” Bev agrees. “Do it.”</p><p>“But don’t you want to know what—”</p><p>“<em>—obviously,” </em>Stan interrupts. “And obviously I’m going to listen to whatever you have to say, and obviously I will think your idea is absurd, and obviously I will want you to do it.”</p><p>Bev nods, checking her hair in the mirror. “Ditto.”</p><p>Richie frowns at the phone, then her, and says, “You’re going to change your mind.”</p><p>“I will absolutely not,” Stan retorts. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”</p><p>Bev laughs.</p><p>“Uh… my best friend who wants what’s best for me?” Richie replies.</p><p>“Oh. Hm.” Stan silences for a moment. Richie can hear the bustle of the Aladdin around him. It’s probably busy on a day like today. “You’ll have to call your other best friend then.”</p><p>“Wow, okay.” Richie snorts. “Fuck off, then. I’m going to call my mom.”</p><p>“Maggie would <em>never—” </em></p><p>“—you don’t know that! You don’t know what I’m going to say!” Richie exclaims. “Mags <em>loves </em>a good show. She spends her afternoons watching, like, fuckin’ <em>Days of Our Lives. </em>You think she wouldn’t like this? Please.”</p><p>“Please fucking share with the class, then, Richard,” Stan snaps. “You <em>know </em>I want what’s best for you. Jesus Christ, I can’t stand you.”</p><p>“Aw, I love you too,” Richie coos. “So, here’s the thing…”</p><p>Stan cuts in just one time in the middle to admit, “Yeah, so Maggie would definitely approve of this.”</p><p>Bev says, “This is so fucking stupid. I love it.”</p><p>Richie waves a hand. “Can I finish fucking <em>speaking?”</em></p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong> <em>#Stozierly</em> </strong>
</p><p><em>big red: switched rotations w kay so I could watch this shitshow<br/>
</em> <em>big red: where is it</em></p><p><strong>stan the man: I’ve been pretending to read this same page for the past idk twenty minutes<br/>
stan the man: eddies been up there for like 10 and richies just<br/>
</strong> <strong>stan the man: staring</strong></p><p><em>big red: bill had to go over there to remind eddie his job is to watch THE PEOPLE IN THE POOL<br/>
</em> <em>big red: NOT THE ONES LOUNGING IN THE CHAIRS</em></p><p><strong>stan the man: I KNOW<br/>
</strong> <strong>stan the man: hard to believe bill denbrough is head lifeguard but it makes it all the more funny<br/>
</strong> <strong>stan the man: wait Richie is making moves<br/>
stan the man: he’s<br/>
</strong> <strong>stan the man: going around the pool?<br/>
</strong> <strong>stan the man: making rounds?<br/>
</strong> <strong>stan the man: you know what? next time he comes past me i am just going to</strong></p><p>
  <em>big red: ??????</em>
</p><p><strong>stan the man: get to your window bev<br/>
</strong> <strong>stan the man: all systems are a GO</strong></p>
<hr/><p>The public pool opens every day at ten in the morning.</p><p>On this particular day, both Bev and Eddie’s schedules match, which is both good and bad. They can show up with her (good), but there’s only a short window of time, seeing as they’re just morning shifts, ending at two-thirty (bad).</p><p>Richie doesn’t do anything for hours, just watches Eddie’s every move like a hawk. At ten-thirty, he gives swim lessons; it’s a different group of kids than last time, but it’s still enough to waste another one of Richie’s limitless hearts, the one he showed up with bursting at the seams when a girl jumps straight into his arms, giddy as all hell.</p><p>At eleven, he swings by the unopened snack bar to talk to Mike, who is prepping burgers, and grabs a pack of Twizzlers from the counter and a cold water bottle from the fridge.</p><p>He reapplies sunscreen at twelve in such an oddly suggestive manner it has Richie’s cheeks heating up. How can a person <em>bend </em>like that? How can a person be <em>that</em> attractive? It’s just—it’s <em>lotion. </em></p><p>But at twelve-twenty, with his sunglasses firmly in place on his nose and a towel around his neck, it begins.</p><p>Eddie climbs the ladder rungs to the chair closest to Stan and Richie, one of two at the deep end. Richie doesn’t even know how deep the pool actually is; he’s been in it, like, one time, and he stood in the four-foot section so Stan wouldn’t have to be on his tip toes the whole time.</p><p>He tries not to be obvious in his staring, not sure how Eddie handled him running off, but dicking around on his phone is not as enticing as Eddie’s entire being is. He lifts his chin, head back, and doesn’t care if everyone can tell he’s looking.</p><p>Because he’s <em>looking. </em>God, is he looking.</p><p>In the time since he’s started coming here—the whole, like, week and a half—Eddie’s only gotten more golden. Lighter and brighter and softer. The sun absolutely loves him, freckling his cheeks, his skin darkening with them. His hair, wavy and begging for Richie to touch, has lightened enough to look almost blonde. He’s even managed to develop that little dry patch of sunburn at the tip of his nose, like he’d forgotten to cover it up one day. He’s absolutely stunning. He’s absolutely perfect. He’s absolutely—</p><p>—looking this way.</p><p>Richie twitches, dropping his head to check his Twitter feed. It shows him nothing of interest, his phone just overheating slowly in his hand. He drops it at his side, clenches his fingers, cracking the knuckles of his thumbs, and looks back up to find Eddie still staring, meeting his gaze steadily.</p><p>Eddie’s sunglasses are pushed into his hair now. There’s this look on his face Richie can’t decipher, but all that matters is that he still seems interested in looking at him after the stunt he pulled the other day.</p><p>Maybe not all hope is lost.</p><p>And it isn’t, if Eddie mouthing <em>hi </em>to him means anything.</p><p>Richie bites down on the corner of his lip so he doesn’t do something stupid like smile, and mouths back, <em>Hey.</em></p><p>Eddie scratches at his nose that’s peeling—even gods have faults, Richie guesses—and parts his lips again, like he’s going to say something else, when a whistle sounds and Kay ruins the moment.</p><p>“<em>NO JUMPING!” </em></p><p>Eddie turns away immediately, attention back on the pool, and Richie rakes a hand through his hair. His nerve endings feel cut and torn just from that encounter alone, from two fucking words and an incredibly confusing, incredibly heated look. How is he going to manage this?</p><p>“I’m not getting any younger,” Stan says.</p><p>“That’s an astute observation,” Richie replies. “Time is always passing us by.”</p><p>Stan closes his book, finger marking the page, and quirks a brow at Richie. “Thank you for that,” he says. “Now please go enact your lunatic plan before I decide to steal your car and leave you stranded. It’s hot as shit.” He cracks the book open again. “And summer is ending with every second you waste.”</p><p>“It’s been a week.”</p><p>“Closer to two,” Stan corrects, “though it feels like a year and I recall you saying you only needed three days for the Richie Tozier Summer of Love. You got Patty excited for nothing.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t bring Patricia into this.” Richie scoffs. “She knows the struggle. There’s still plenty of time to—”</p><p>“—Richard Wentworth Tozier, if you do not get up <em>right now—” </em></p><p>“—oh, okay, <em>Dad, </em>what are you gonna do about it?”</p><p>Stan smirks at him. “I’ll do it myself.”</p><p>“No!” Richie blurts. “You wouldn’t! What about Patty? You couldn’t do that to her. <em>To me!”</em></p><p>“Then get the <em>fuck</em> up,” Stan orders. “Time is always passing us by, Richie.”</p><p>“Alright, alright, no need to fucking mock me,” Richie grumbles, pushing himself up. He sits back down as soon as he stands, knees like jello, and breathes in for two and out for four. He’s fine. This is fine. It’s a—maybe not a <em>good </em>plan, but it’s a plan. “Don’t go getting an ulcer because of me. I couldn’t bear it.”</p><p>Stan snorts. “You’re always going to give me an ulcer.”</p><p>“Now you really sound like my dad.”</p><p>“Went and I have a lot in common, choosing to deal with you daily for our entire lives,” Stan replies. “Now <em>go. </em>I can feel myself aging.”</p><p>“Ugh,” Richie says, and then, “Fuck.”</p><p>The loose feeling in his legs, that lack of control, doesn’t leave him, but he figures that’s a good thing for what he’s about to do. He throws his glasses at Stan and walks towards the water, and then jerks away from it, getting as much space between himself and Eddie and Stan as he possibly can.</p><p>He’s to do one lap around the pool, stop at the lifeguard office to talk to Bev for a hot sec, and then come back the way he came, but he feels too jittery. Too full of nerves. Part of him just wants to abandon his shit again and walk right outside to his car, hoping he’d forgotten to lock the backseat and lay there for the remainder of the day. He wants to leave and maybe never come back, the thought of his immense crush, his plan, of Eddie going <em>I’m into guys, Richie </em>making him feel like soup, like his legs will never work again. His heart is going to race him into an early grave.</p><p>But it’s those exact things that make him turn the corner of the pool, that make him ask Bev when she gets off even though he <em>knows </em>and if she wants to grab happy hour drinks when she’s done.</p><p>His immense crush, his stupid plan, the way Eddie said <em>and I asked because I am into guys and I thought you were… </em></p><p>All of it has him turning back, but he’s not ready yet, so he walks around again, pops his head into the office to ask Bev if she wants to go to their usual place. She does. She also wants to know what the hell he’s doing. He says he’s stretching his legs. She tells him to utilize the pool he spent money on if he’s so restless.</p><p>He nears back to his chair, to Stan with his book, debating another loop around when he hears the aggressive, threatening way Stan clears his throat, and he just—he takes the Richie-and-Bev <em>fuck it </em>ideal and just...</p><p>…falls right into the deep end.</p><p>He just—he <em>sinks. </em></p><p>The water is not as cold as he’d like on a day like today, but it’s nice anyway which is a blessing. He wills his body to turn to dead weight, to keep himself from kicking back up. It’s incredibly hard when he knows he’s not supposed to spend too much time underwater; his body aches to swim upwards, a reflex, but he thinks of his plan, of rocks, and weights, and lets himself continue the slow decline down.</p><p>Down, down, down. Maybe the pool is deeper than he imagined. He never investigated that part.</p><p>The more time he spends not attempting to break the surface, the more his body struggles. The more it wants him to. The more it reminds himself this is not the place for him, he can’t breathe down here, <em>go up, up, up! </em>He reminds himself not to, locking his ankles together.</p><p>He hits the bottom.</p><p>Opens his eyes.</p><p>Blurry legs and bottoms of bathing suits flood his vision. Many people are treading water. One boy dives all the way down to get his goggles, some sort of game he’s playing with his friends. They’re thrown again. A different kid goes to retrieve them.</p><p>Richie doesn’t know how long he watches them. Time escapes him until a whistle blows, loud even beneath all this water. A splash resounds above him, frantic motions sending harsh currents his way, and arms loop around his armpits, hauling him up. It’s quick and jarring, going from water to concrete; he feels incredibly wet and waterlogged. Tired, almost.</p><p>His head is laid back gently, and he refrains from blinking his eyes open, from coughing. From any and all sudden movements, including the jerking of a foot. This will not work if he shows him he’s fine.</p><p>So Richie remains stock still. He doesn’t even breathe—at least not noticeably.</p><p>He hears Eddie ask, “Can he swim?”</p><p>Stan says, “I think the last time he swam was in the sixth grade and he almost drowned in the ocean.” Pauses. “So no. Or yes. He can doggy paddle? He once did a backstroke?”</p><p>“You are literally no help,” Eddie says.</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> literally no help,” Stan says. “None of that matters right now. He fell. He is not moving. Is he breathing? Get to lifeguarding, Eddie Kaspbrak.”</p><p>There is a brief moment where Richie debates opening his eyes, where he thinks about checking out, coughing himself awake, but Eddie snaps, “It’s not <em>lifeguarding. </em>It’s called <em>CPR.” </em></p><p>And then Eddie’s mouth is on Richie’s, and his fingers are holding his nose closed, and he’s trying to bring him back from the brink of unconsciousness, where Richie currently is not.</p><p>The light pressure of Eddie’s lips against Richie’s is enough to send him to another dimension, and it’s barely more than a brush of them together. Eddie forces air in Richie’s mouth, pulls back and away (<em>awful),</em> does a series of chest compressions (<em>terrible)</em>, and returns (<em>good).</em></p><p>How long this goes on for is a testament to how dramatic Richie is—or how nervous, depending on how you look at it. It’s a series of Eddie’s mouth, hands, mouth, hands, mouth, and when Richie acts, it’s because he’s sick of the tastes he’s getting when he only wants <em>more. </em></p><p>He lifts his own palm, not even slow, not even steady, a jerking motion the next time Eddie’s face is close to his. He pulls him in, the pressure his own mouth adds turning the action from lifesaving to kissing; their lips slide against each other as Richie’s palms cup Eddie’s face, slick with a combination of water, sunscreen, and sweat.</p><p>He tastes of chlorine and the weird artificial flavoring of both his chapstick and his sunblock—cherries and bananas—but Richie doesn’t mind, not when he’s reminded of <em>why </em>he tastes it. He parts his lips as if to chase it, to see what the inside of Eddie’s mouth is like. Sweet? Salty? Cool, like freshly drank water? Like everything Richie’s ever remotely enjoyed wrapped up in one person?</p><p>Eddie, upon realizing what’s actually going on, makes a startled sort of noise, hands softening against Richie’s chest, fingers wrapping around a shoulder. He’s gentle there, as if remembering the sunburn. He kisses him back: hungrily, devotedly, all-consumingly, so all Richie knows is Eddie and his perfect, perfect mouth.</p><p>Children shriek behind them, grossed out by the mere action of kissing or the fact that two guys are kissing or whatever kids are disgusted by. A woman says, “Oh, my,” like she’s never seen such a thing. Richie can imagine her fanning her flushed face. A hard snort indicates they have all of Stan’s attention and the light, barking laugh of Bev means she’s left the office and moved somewhere in the crowd.</p><p>And then there’s the whistle—the godforsaken whistle, sounding loud, long, and, if possible, as annoyed as the person whose blown it.</p><p>That sound breaks Eddie from his trance; he pulls away immediately, frantic and redder than Richie’s ever seen him, putting as much space between them as possible. “You didn’t really drown, did you?” he asks, chest heaving.</p><p>Richie feels like maybe he did, his lungs close to bursting, breaths unable to fill him with oxygen the way they should. It’s the look on Eddie’s face that keeps him from self-regulating, soft and sweet and a little nervous. His mouth is red, bottom lip more swollen than the top. He seems more into Richie than he does the trouble he’s no doubt about to get into.</p><p>(Richie’ll probably get in trouble, too, but he doesn’t care, not when he’s made Eddie look like <em>this.) </em></p><p>“Nope,” he replies cheerfully, panting. “It was actually incredibly hard to pretend I was.”</p><p>Eddie’s hair is slick to his forehead. Beads of water run down the side of his neck, sliding down his chest to places Richie’s hands long to touch. He blinks at him, shaking his head. “And why did you pretend to drown?”</p><p>“So you’d do that.”</p><p>“Perform CPR?”</p><p>“Well, yeah,” says Richie. “How else was I supposed to kiss you?”</p><p>“You pretended to dr…” Eddie mumbles. “Just so I’d… so you could… pretended to <em>drown </em>so I would—”</p><p>Eddie stammers all over, making no sense and forming no complete sentences. He pulls Richie up by his sunburnt shoulders, digging his nails in—“<em>Ow, dude, what the fuck!”—</em>and tackles Richie back into the water, forcing his head under with this strong, gremlin-like grip, pulling at Richie’s hair when he tries to break free.</p><p>They fight underwater, kicking at each other, clawing at each other. Eddie acts like he’s quite literally going to make sure Richie drowns this time, and Richie gives it the best he’s got, fighting in a different way now that he knows what Eddie’s kiss tastes like. He shoves at him, detaching Eddie’s grip from his neck, and sliding his hands down Eddie’s back and beneath the waistband of his shorts, where he palms the meat of his ass. Eddie shivers, going limp, and wraps his legs around Richie’s waist, pressing their hips together.</p><p>Richie swallows a groan, and then a mouthful of water, and pushes up with his feet. They break the surface to curious glances, to Bill with that hat, and Bev with her bun, and Kay with her whistle, which she blows over and over. It’s hard to tell if she’s annoyed or amused, but knowing her, it’s the latter. She always claims nothing interesting happens at this place.</p><p>“Sorry about running away the other day,” Richie mumbles, blinking water out of his eyes. It clings to his lashes, making Eddie blurrier than usual.</p><p>Eddie shoves at Richie’s chest, a lackluster sort of thing, and wraps his arms around his neck, catching his breath. “You could’ve just <em>asked,” </em>he says, untangling himself. “You know, like a normal fucking person.”</p><p>“Oh,” Richie murmurs, watching the flex of Eddie’s back muscles as he pulls himself out of the pool. “Well, in that case… can I kiss you again?”</p><p>“Literally <em>no,” </em>Eddie says. He ignores Bill, Bev, and even Stan, turning around to hold a hand out to Richie. “I’m <em>working, </em>asshole.”</p><p>“Oh, is that my new nickname?” Richie teases, taking his hand. “It’s not as good as Eds, but it’ll do just fine if you always say it like that.” He hoists himself up with Eddie’s help, hooking a knee over the edge—</p><p>—and is shoved back in by Eddie’s other hand as soon as he’s scrambled up halfway.</p><p>Richie splutters, really coughing up water this time when he emerges, only to find everyone gone, Bill and Eddie bickering on their way back to the lifeguard office. Bev’s taken Richie’s chair, flashing him a thumbs up.</p><p>“I believe,” she says, absolutely fucking gleeful, “that went <em>swimmingly.” </em></p><p>Stan snorts, lifting his phone to take a picture of Richie, clinging to the side of the pool.</p><p>He drops it in the <em>#StozierBlum </em>group chat with the caption <em>the aftermath of baby’s first kiss. </em></p><p>Patty asks <em>is that the name of the soft core porn they’re making?</em></p>
<hr/><p>“I think it would be best if we laid low for the next couple of days,” Stan tells him, towel wrapped securely around his waist. “Maybe we can hang out at home like we used to. Go to the arcade. Don’t you have material to finalize anyway?”</p><p>Richie sticks a finger in his ear and shakes it around, trying to loosen the water that’s been stuck there for the past twenty minutes. “I have plenty now,” he admits. “These past two weeks have been nothing but prime joke material. People are gonna love my shameless attempt at summer romance.”</p><p>“Sure, yeah, it <em>was </em>pretty funny,” Stan says, “but did we have to get scolded like that? I thought that man was going to throw us out by our ears and I had nothing to do with this!”</p><p>“You didn’t stop me,” Richie points out. “You actually encouraged me, so…”</p><p>“Bev did too and she wasn’t called into the office! I didn’t even know there were other people besides the lifeguards here!” Stan exclaims. “And that man has <em>no idea </em>what it’s like to deal with you when you whine and pine. It’s exhausting.” He presses himself to his tiptoes, looking for Richie’s car, parked somewhere in the back of the lot. “Like, okay, forcibly remove me from the premises, whatever, but did he consider the fact that I was done for the day <em>anyway? </em>You got your kiss, I finished another book, which puts me two ahead of Patty, so… a win-win, I’d say. Let’s go home and not smell like chlorine for a while.”</p><p>Richie sighs. “Yeah, but, like, I definitely fucked up. He didn’t let me have another kiss, so it was kind of pointless, and he didn’t accept my apology. What a waste of money.”</p><p>“This was always a waste of money,” Stan says. “You sunburn in the <em>winter, </em>and I hate public pools. There’s a reason we don’t come here even though Bev’s been working here every summer since she turned sixteen.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I really thought…”</p><p>Richie doesn’t finish his sentence, embarrassed by it. <em>What’d he think? </em>He’d pretend to drown, kiss Eddie, and they’d fall in love, happily ever after, the end?</p><p>Well.</p><p>Yeah, that was what he thought, but… life doesn’t work out that way, even when you put yourself out there. Even when Richie goes for it, when he steps out of his comfort zone, he doesn’t get what he—</p><p>“Hey, hey! Richie, wait!”</p><p>The sound of Eddie’s voice cuts through his rambling thoughts and has his spine going perfectly still, perfectly rigid.</p><p>Stan laughs out right, rifles through Richie’s pocket, and takes his keys. “See you in the car,” he says, and races off.</p><p>Some fucking friend he is.</p><p>Richie bites the inside of his cheek and turns, Eddie’s footfalls slowing as he gets close. “Hey,” he says awkwardly. “What’s… what’s up? I didn’t get you fired, did I?”</p><p>“No,” Eddie says, nose wrinkling as he smiles. “Just docking my pay for today, so I can’t go halfsies on pizza with you tonight if I want to pay my bills on time.”</p><p>“Oh, I didn’t mean for—<em>halfsies?” </em>Richie swallows. “Tonight? <em>Pizza?” </em></p><p>“Yeah.” Eddie grins. “I get off at seven—“</p><p>“—I thought your shift ended at, like, now,” Richie says, which implies he knew Eddie’s schedule. He flushes.</p><p>“I swapped with Sally for the whole day,” Eddie replies. “So, I get off at seven and you can pick me up at Bill’s at, like, eight?”</p><p>“Pick you up.” Richie nods dumbly. “For pizza.”</p><p>“For a <em>date,”</em> Eddie corrects, “or should I make a scene like you did to get the message across?”</p><p>Richie feels the vivid, painful coloring of his cheeks. “I don’t know where Bill lives.”</p><p>“I’ll text it to you.” Eddie holds his hand out. “Gimme your phone.”</p><p>Richie hands it over, watches Eddie add himself as a contact, and then send himself a message. When he gets his phone back, the brushing of their fingers sends a jolt of electricity up Richie’s arm.</p><p>“I really am sorry about the whole…” <em>The running away. The kiss. The docked pay. </em>He doesn’t know what to say first, so he says, “Thing. I’m sorry about the whole thing.” There’s no other way to describe the shitshow he’d created back there the past few days. “You actually want to go on a date with me after all that?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie replies, “I’ve been trying to find a way to ask you out all week.”</p><p>“You have?”</p><p>“Yeah, dummy,” Eddie says, “but every time I even glanced in your general direction you looked like a deer in the headlights. I wasn’t sure what your whole deal was and Bev wouldn’t say a word.”</p><p>Richie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, of course. My friends hate to help me.”</p><p>Eddie laughs softly. “You did fine on your own.”</p><p>“If your definition of fine is me getting kicked out of the pool and losing you money, then sure,” Richie replies flatly. “I did great.”</p><p>“Alright, so it wasn’t the best.” Eddie shrugs. “But it was the most interesting and thoughtful way a person has tried to get my attention, so… it’s the thought that counts. I am pretty sure you’ll be able to make up for it later, though.”</p><p>“Pretty sure?” Richie echoes.</p><p>“Yeah.” Now it’s Eddie’s turn to blush. “It’s not like you’re a bad kisser, Rich. I just can’t be kissing people <em>on the job.” </em></p><p>“Dumb rule,” Richie tells him. “So many hot people at the pool. They gotta understand.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, okay, I’ll bring that up to HR first thing,” Eddie replies.</p><p>“Hot girl summers were <em>made</em> for shit like this,” Richie tells him. “But, uh.” Bravery surges through him. “Are you on the job right now?”</p><p>“Technically yes,” Eddie answers, “but I’m on a break, so…” He steps forward to close the distance and loops a towel around Richie’s neck, pulling him close. “You left this here. Thought I’d return it.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Richie says. “It’s my favorite. It has—”</p><p>“—watermelons on it,” Eddie finishes for him.</p><p>Richie’s neck bends, Eddie’s nose brushes his, and their mouths are one.</p><p>Richie hums pleasantly, tilting his neck to fix the angle, and licks into Eddie, brushing his tongue against his. Eddie shivers, arching into him, hands dragging to tug harder at the towel, to press up as close as he possibly can. They kiss for what feels like hours but is mere minutes, standing there in the entranceway of the Derry pool. Richie is only a little bit ashamed by the sound he makes when Eddie pulls away, but if you were kissing Eddie Kaspbrak, you’d do the same.</p><p>“I don’t want them to start looking for me or anything,” Eddie says, toying with the stiff, drying curls at the nape of Richie’s neck, “so I should head back before they get suspicious.”</p><p>“It’s your break, though,” Richie murmurs.</p><p>“They’ll be watching me anyway,” Eddie tells him. “After a stunt like that… it’s best if I just go to work and do my job until they forget all about it, or something more interesting happens.”</p><p>“Mm,” Richie says, “nothing more interesting than that will ever happen at the Derry pool. You can ask Kay. She’s been bored for years.”</p><p>Eddie smiles, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he says, “but I kinda like my job, so I’m gonna head back. I’ll see you in…” He checks his waterproof watch. “…six hours?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie says. “Yeah. Six hours. At Bill’s house. Did you just call me sweetheart?”</p><p>Eddie raises a shoulder, digging it into his cheek. “It’s better than Trashmouth and asshole, is it not?”</p><p>“Yeah, much nicer,” Richie agrees, mouth full of cotton. <em>Sweetheart. Sweetheart! </em>He can’t keep his smile from widening. It’s so fucking stupid.</p><p>“Okay, so I really gotta go,” Eddie says. He pushes himself onto his toes and presses a kiss to Richie’s cheek. “I’ll see you later. Oh, and I like pineapple on my pizza. Hope that’s not a dealbreaker, <em>byyyyyyyeeeee!”</em></p><p>Richie watches him go in those cute little shorts before turning on his heel and blindly making his way through the parking lot. He mulls over pineapple on pizza, having never had it, and wonders if he, too, will like it. It can’t be any different than when it’s put in fried rice, right? Similar vibes probably.</p><p>He squints around, looking for his car, not even remotely aware of where it is, when his phone vibrates in his hand. He hopes it’s Stan, telling him his exact location.</p><p>It’s Eddie.</p><p>Richie’s heart palpitates wildly.</p><p><em> <span class="u">(2:13) 2418 Witcham Street, corner of Jackson, after the weird loop on Main but before the turn on Kansas<br/>
</span> </em> <strong>(2:31) I switched with Sally so I wouldn’t have work tomorrow ;) </strong></p><p>“Jesus fucking Christ,” Richie says out loud.</p><p>His thumbs move across his screen at the speed of sound.</p><p>He misspells everything.</p><p>Erases it.</p><p>Tries again.</p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>(2:35) wow i ALSO switched with Sally so i wouldn’t have work tomorrow</em>
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<span class="u">
    <em>(2:35) funny coincidence</em>
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<span class="u">
    <em>(2:35) and i’ve just discovered i could probably be a big fan of pineapple on pizza</em>
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<strong>(2:35) Oh cool</strong><br/>
<strong>(2:35) I’ve discovered I am definitely a big fan of yours so funny how things work out like that</strong>
</p><p>Richie walks into someone else’s car, lost in this text message, and jams his knee into their door. The alarm sets off, making him scramble away. The only reason he gets to his own, despite it <em>still </em>being the nicest in the lot, is due to Stan’s incessant honking.</p><p>He gets in the passenger seat, deciding to let Stan drive. He is in no state to control heavy machinery. He hands his phone over to him before he clips in his seatbelt.</p><p>Stan reads the messages, purses his lips, and tosses the phone in the cupholder. “We share a wall,” he says. “I’m going to Patty’s.”</p><p>He flicks his wrist to start the engine. The air conditioning hits them full force, which Stan immediately lowers, and Richie pops open his glove compartment.</p><p>“*NSYNC or Britney Spears?”</p><p>Stan pretends to deliberate for a second, putting the car in reverse and checking his blind spots. “Britney.”</p><p>He receives a text in the <em>#Stozierly </em>chat in the middle of his rousing rendition of <em>Stronger. </em></p><p>Stan instructs Siri to read the message.</p><p>“From big red,” the computerized voice says, “Kay told Eddie at the lifeguard party you had a big fat crush on him he knew the entire time el-oh-el.”</p><p>Richie gasps. “Siri, text Kay and tell her I’m going to four letter word her.”</p><p>His phone vibrates again. Siri reads it for them: “Oooh, kiss?”</p><p>Richie shouts, “No, <em>kill!”</em></p><p>There’s a brief pause and then Siri says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.”</p>
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